


Metamorph: Gambit

by andthekitchensink



Series: Metamorphoses [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Don't copy to another site!, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-10-04 12:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17304416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: Ever wondered "What if chapter 7: Cold Light of Day from that giant fic Metamorph ended differently?" Here's one version of events, and chances are there'll be more where that came from. Lemme know if you want to see more from this 'timeline', though. Crappy aftermaths of shitty events is kinda my jam on buttered toast. XDThe long and short of it is, day before New Year's 2038, Hank gets shot by a disgruntled co-worker, despite Connor's best efforts. Not everyone involved makes it out alive. CyberLife sends a new Connor to investigate...It's a chapter 7 flowchart variation, if you will.





	1. Opening

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write this. I had to. This was one of many ways I could see this chapter go, but obviously I settled on a different route for Metamorph. Still. I just had to write this one too, for my own amusement. :)
> 
> Yes, I am a sadistic writer. My muses hate me.

* * *

 

_ 9:15 AM, Thursday, December 30, 2038 _

 

_ This is Michael Brinkley reporting for CTN’s morning news, bringing you the latest events from the Detroit area. This morning, at approximately 9 AM, there was an incident at Detroit Central Police station. The DPD have yet to release a statement, but sources within the force state that there were shots fired in the middle of the workplace. Thus far, it is unclear whether there were anyone injured, or indeed, if there were casualties. Nevertheless, it is an alarming development in the latest string of unsettling events unfolding all across the Detroit area. _

  
  


_ 9:21 AM _

 

_ Disturbing news from the DPD: this morning, one of the police working at the station opened fire on a colleague. Details remain unclear, but by all accounts, it is connected to the ongoing deviancy investigations. We will keep you updated as the story progresses. This is Rosanna Cartland, for KNC Detroit. _

  
  


_ 9:30 AM _

 

_...Joss Douglas reporting for Channel 16. There has taken place a shooting at Detroit PD’s Central Station. It is still unclear exactly what happened, but sources on site state this was nothing short of a hate crime: Lieutenant Hank Anderson and his partner, Connor, both investigating the deviancy cases, were viciously attacked this morning, with one confirmed casualty. One officer was rushed to hospital, but beyond that, the department has been discreet, no doubt wanting to contain the incident pending investigation. Our thoughts go out to everyone at Central Station, and all those affected by this heinous crime. _

 

***

 

It was the day before New Year’s Eve, just past 1 PM that Connor stepped into the reception area of Detroit Police’s Central Station. According to procedure, Amanda had provided him with few details, wanting him to be as unbiased as possible. He was always unbiased, but he understood her reasoning: better to be safe than sorry, and let him review facts as he found them without previous input. There had been a shooting involving a deviant, and he was tasked with the investigation of said case. It went without saying that his predecessor had been interrupted, but when the human receptionist looked at him with too wide eyes and all the blood seemed to drain away from his face, Connor couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more to it. When prompted he let him pass the security checkpoint, and Connor saw no reason to press the issue.

 

The hallway was as he remembered it from the last time he was here, but completely void of its officers. No one was at their desk, the entire area cordoned off by holographic yellow tape, and CSI were still collecting evidence, two detectives from the 4th precinct were taking notes and looking at evidence in turn (Richard Gallagher and Kim Turner). This side of the white island in the middle of the open landscape was a pool of blood - a scan told him it was more than four hours old, and the pattern itself told him it was unlikely that the blood came from one source alone, and that there wasn’t enough of it to constitute a fatal outcome - at least not locally. Anything could have happened en route to the nearest hospital, or during treatment. There were droplets consistent with a suspect standing still, blood dripping perpendicular to the floor and creating perfect dots: it suggested there were at least two parties involved so far. He would have to take samples to get a clearer picture of events.

 

“ _ Jesus-- _ ”

 

Connor tilted his head at the sound of the familiar voice of the captain - Jeffrey Fowler, former Master Sergeant of the US Air Force, former Sergeant First Class of the US armed forces, stopping in his tracks at the sight of him, now marching from the general vicinity of the break room down the hall.

 

“Connor! What the Hell--?”

 

Connor tilted his head, not entirely understanding the query. “CyberLife sent me to investigate a shooting, as it involves a deviant… As I understand it, CyberLife and Detroit Police have renewed their collaboration, and my predecessor is-- unavailable?”

 

The more he talked, the less certain he felt of the facts. Captain Fowler looked as stricken as the receptionist - even with his dark complexion he seemed ashen, a dullness in his eyes that Connor had never seen before. Just then there was a murmur from the break room: several heads ducking sideways to look beyond the corner, all eyes on him. Collins, Miller, Wilson, all of them looking-- horrified(?). Connor blinked once, twice, as the captain grabbed him by the arm and led him to his office. There was another pool of blood on the floor next to Hank’s desk, partially smeared, and...a familiar pair of shoes, obscured by the white island counter in the middle of the bullpen. It sent tiny little rattling sensations up Connor’s spinal column.

 

“Sit,” said Fowler, moving to his coffee machine in the far corner. His hand seemed to tremble as the pushed the buttons much harder than strictly necessary.

 

Connor stayed put, standing by the desk. He had an increasingly bad feeling about this. “I don’t mean to make assumptions, Captain, but-- Is-- Is Hank okay?”

 

The coffee machine did its thing, and when Fowler turned towards his own chair, he stopped dead in his tracks and jabbed his entire hand at the chair in front of Connor. “Sit. Down.  _ Now _ .”

 

Connor pressed his lips together, ducked his chin. He’d obviously crossed a line somewhere, and he’d get nowhere if Captain Fowler decided to cut all ties with CyberLife in a fit of infantile frustration. He sat down, clasping his hands loosely in his lap. “I saw some of the blood spatter. The pattern only tells me so much without further investigation. Please-- sir. Hank’s my…” Partner? Friend? It had been almost two months since his predecessor’s last memory upload. Were they still… “I consider him my friend.”

 

The captain looked at him, big hands wrapped around his Dad of the Year mug (no doubt a gift from his daughter), making it look very small. He’d yet to sample the coffee, seeming to draw comfort from the aroma alone. “You’re not updated? You out of sync or something?”

 

It was a difficult concept to explain to humans in a way that didn’t belittle their intelligence - not all of them could be cybernetic engineers, after all. “The RK800 model uploads its memory to a centralized bank. A backup server, if you will. It’s routine to make such uploads at least once every 24 hour cycle, but we can opt for shorter intervals as well. When a Connor is replaced, the memory bank is transferred to the new one. There...can be data losses.” He didn’t exactly want to volunteer that he wasn’t up to date on events, but he struggled with the idea of withholding information from his superiors. He tilted his head sideways, shoulders lifting in a tandem shrug. “The last upload is from November 9. I-- realize that potentially complicates matters, but--”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

Connor stopped talking, lips parted in what felt like anticipation. Fowler looked...tired. Exhausted. Connor closed his mouth, feeling increasingly torn between conflicting mission objectives: solve this case//find Hank. Something was very, very wrong with this situation.

 

“I don’t know if you’ve read the news recently, but--” he held up one hand, index finger aimed at the sky in clear warning. “Before you go index searching, you’re gonna listen to me. I’m going to tell you what you need to know, and then you can make your own mind up about the media coverage.”

 

“Got it.” There was a second shoe somewhere in there, ready to drop. Connor put his index searches on hold, and listened to what Captain Fowler had to say.

 

Little did he know that it would change the way he viewed the world, completely, for the rest of his existence.

 

***

 

Having taken Fowler’s statement, Connor moved to the break room to talk to the witnesses (friends of Hank’s, friends of...his predecessor) who were still there. He was as respectful as he could be, tried to be considerate and still get the answers needed. They’d all left their statements, but they cooperated without complaint. All the while, they kept looking at him as if they couldn’t actually believe he was standing there, talking to them. They looked at him as if he wasn’t an android, but something...unique. As if he was-- their friend.

 

“Ugh,  _ shit _ ,” groaned Collins over his Styrofoam cup, as the more formal bits were out of the way. They were all standing around one of the round bar tables; all of them seemed to cycle between calm, collected, been there/done that, and high emotion tempered only by a sense of propriety or restraint. Collins was the closest to choking up this time around, out of the three of them. “Never thought I’d say this about an android, but he was a good kid. Hard working, diligent, never said a single bad word about anyone. Unless they deserved it, and then he said it to their face.”

 

Miller nodded. “Respectful. Took an interest in everyone’s lives, but he didn’t pry. He used to ask about Damian, and you could tell it wasn’t just to be polite. He  _ cared _ .”

 

“He was a performer,” said Wilson with a fresh grin. “Remember  _ Twilight Time _ ?”

 

The humans shared muted chuckles. Wilson turned his eyes to the ceiling, while Collins filled in, “He was a badass. Never seen anyone handle Reed the way he did.”

 

“ _ Beyond _ ,” said Miller.

 

“Shit. This is going to kill him…”

 

Connor stood there, stunned to silence, realizing as if through a delayed response that they were talking about him. Or-- not him. The first one. By the sound of his colleagues, the only Connor that really mattered.

 

He thanked them for their cooperation, and continued onwards, to analyze the crime scene itself. Everyone’s statements popped up on his visual grid as he reviewed them against the facts of the crime scene. Most of them were accurate enough about what had happened, but then they weren’t normal witnesses but trained police officers. He expected nothing less than accuracy from them. It certainly helped the case.

 

As he stepped away from the evidence markers and crossed the yellow tape, Fowler stood there waiting for him with the same mug of coffee in hand. “What d’you make of it?”

 

Connor had a full report ready at the drop of a hat, as it were, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the only thing he could think of was how horrendous it was. He looked over his shoulder, at what used to be a fully functional RK800. His predecessor, flat on his back by Hank’s desk...covered in Hank’s blood and evaporated thirium; dressed in the same standard issue uniform as he, but apart from that there wasn’t much left of him in ways of visual identification. Most of his face had been obliterated by gunshots (almost nothing but his right eye and some occipital structure around it, his LED was intact but his jaw was...not in evidence), his torso as well. His right arm. There were bits of circuitry sprayed onto Hank’s and his desk (the name plate said Det. Connor); a piece of his cranial casing lay approximately five feet away, in the hall. Connor counted twelve bullet holes in total, with added damage due to fracturing. Pieces splintering off, disintegrating from the force of impact… No, there wasn’t much left of the old Connor. Not much at all, except for spare parts. It made Connor feel...strange.

 

Hank was the only friend he had, and now… “It is such a waste,” he said, and judging by the look in Captain Fowler’s eyes, they could agree on that point. Fowler gave him the access code to the CCTV server, let him review that as well. It took all of .33 minutes to sort through and analyze the most recent data. It didn’t make him feel any more optimistic about the potential fallout, but he had to remain objective.

 

“Come on,” said Fowler, gesturing down the hall. “He’s in Interrogation Room #1. Hasn’t said one word since...this morning. Completely unresponsive, resisting treatment of his injuries-- Maybe you’ll have better luck… But-- be careful, alright? God knows what kind of mental state he’s in.”

 

Connor nodded, not looking forward to this one bit, but he was confident in his programming. He had to be. Without that to fall back on, where would he even begin?

 

***

 

Outside Observation Room #1, Fowler asked if he wanted to have a moment, get his bearings, but Connor shook his head in the negative. He’d waited too long already; he could assess the situation once he stepped into the interrogation room.

 

“I’ll be in here, watching. We’re recording everything.”

 

They looked into each other’s eyes, one set as steely as the other. It was showtime: make or break time, time to do their utmost...for a dear friend.

 

Connor unlocked the door via the biometric panel outside and stepped inside, and what a depressing room it was - red lights on the greenish gray walls, cold white lights above, bathing the room in a disturbing shade of distress - and on the opposite side of the table sat the man of the hour.

 

Lieutenant Hank Anderson, staring at the middle of the table, seeing nothing. He had a gunshot wound to the right shoulder, through-and-through: consistent with crime scene. CSI picked a slug out of the wall corresponding with Hank’s height; bruising along his left cheekbone, a gash across his nose - Connor’s 3D grid provided additional information to the scene outside: Hank had been pistol whipped, for lack of a better term; his own blood soaked into his shirt from the GSW, but also spattering consistent with physical altercations. High velocity spatter; his knuckles: bruised and bloodied, fingers coated in thirium; a smear of blood across his forehead, red and now-invisible blue: Detective Reed’s, as well as Connor’s...

 

He wasn’t charged with anything as yet; he wasn’t arrested - as Fowler had explained it, Hank was here for observation, nothing more. Far as anyone working here was concerned, Hank had acted in self defense, and Reed was going to wake up to hear his Miranda rights read out to him for shooting a police officer in cold blood. End of story. Unless Reed thought otherwise and decided to press charges as well. If he made it through surgery.

 

As Connor sat down slowly, carefully, positively gliding into the seat so as not to startle the lieutenant, Hank looked up from the table. The look on his face was one of numb resignation, morphing into anguish as their eyes met - and something worse. Far worse. A glimmer of hope.

 

“C-...-onnor?”

 

That glimmer of hope was just that: a flash in the dark, there and gone again so quick you couldn’t be sure you’d seen it at all. But it was there. Connor was sure of it, as sure as he could see it die as Hank’s eyes looked him over from top to bottom.

 

“CyberLife’s sure got a boner for the DPD if they send a new one this fast,” he said, eyes going back to their previous, downcast gazing into space.

 

Connor’s eyebrows arched above his eyes, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Hank was hurting, he was injured: he didn’t need anyone to come in here and make things worse. Although, Connor had a feeling it was going to get really bad. Really, really bad.

 

No… The situation was already bad, and whatever he said was only going to add to it, which was the very definition of making things worse. His sheer presence was bad enough - all he had to do to corroborate that version was play back the faces of Connor Mark I’s colleagues, just-- look at Hank. He shouldn’t be here - but he was here, and he was going to do his best to fulfill his mission.

 

“Can you tell me what happened this morning, Lieutenant? Captain Fowler tells me you’ve yet to leave your statement.”

 

Hank’s gaze lifted, and with it his eyebrows slanted like ski slopes. If looks could have killed, Connor had a feeling he’d be the victim of cold blooded murder. That is, if you could kill something that isn’t alive. And yet...that’s what had been so unsettling, since stepping foot at the station this afternoon: everyone seemed to be in a state of mourning.

 

They were...grieving.

 

At the top of his visual grid, a status message said there was an instability in his software. He shrugged it off as inconsequential, for now. He had more important things to focus on, like steeling oneself before Hank’s murderous glare.

 

“You know what happened. You’ve done your homework, you know  _ everything _ ,” he said, low and menacing, accusing Connor of a crime he hadn’t committed. He wasn’t wrong, though, and Connor found himself weighing his options between telling the truth, or to tell a lie.

 

It was easy enough to come to a decision. Hank was his best friend: Connor nodded. “I know what happened this morning, yes. I...know that you and my predecessor were…” He hesitated at the word, not sure what the correct term was. He didn’t know  _ everything _ . “--devoted to each other.”

 

Regardless whether it was the correct term, it seemed to set off a ripple effect. Hank’s eyes went from narrowed with disdain, defiant, borderline contemptuous of anyone that dare ask anything about himself and Mark I, least of all Mark II, to something less so. Connor watched as all the air seemed to seep out of his posture, and his eyes went big and too bright. Vulnerable. Exposed. Welling up with tears that refused to fall.

 

“Tell me what happened, Hank,” Connor insisted, but gently. “You and Connor were working at your desks, this morning…”

 

Hank nodded, running the fingers of one hand along the edge of the table. “There’s so many cases, never lets up, but we’re… We  _ were  _ closing ‘em one at a time. Making progress.”

 

Deviancy had continued to spread - Amanda had said as much, and advised him to keep a low profile regarding the phenomenon. Just gather as much intel as he could, over the course of the investigation. He clasped his fingers in front of him, opting for quiet, to see if it could encourage Hank to go on. He was right.

 

“The past two weeks have been-- fucked. Since CyberLife’s promo thing, we’ve been hounded by paparazzi and tabloid journalists,  _ and _ mainstream media. I’ve never seen Connor so jumpy-- but, the guys here, they’ve been supportive. Supportive enough. They’re warming up to Connor, and, fuck if I know, but… No one’s said anything about us, or asked stupid questions about the plans with CyberLife, not even Gavin… Coming to work felt like a sanctuary. A safe place away from all the crazy shit. And then all of a sudden, he’s picking a fight! Out of nowhere!”

 

“Detective Reed?”

 

“ _ Yes _ , Detective-fuckin’- _ Reed _ !” Hank all but snarled across the table. “The things he said! About Connor! Humiliating-- degrading, sonuva _ bitch _ , the-- Shit!!  _ Jesus _ , he-- froze like deer in headlights, he looked like a statue, he was so shocked!”

 

Connor nodded. “When he didn’t respond, you did. You stood up for your partner. And then what happened?”

 

Hank’s jaw worked from side to side, mouth opening and shutting over words that wouldn’t present themselves. His hands began to tremble, and he lifted one of them to hover in front of his mouth, just the tips of his fingers touching his mustache.

 

He told him everything - about the argument, how Connor tried to reason with both of them to stop fighting but didn’t seem able to find the right words, how everything seemed to spiral out of control, the mad glint in Reed’s eye right before the gun entered the picture. How Gavin Reed thought that he, of all people, had the right to decide who was trash and who wasn’t, and he’d figured Hank was little more than a rabid dog that had gone too long without proper treatment. He ‘had to be put down’.

 

Then the click of the trigger, the flash of movement in the corner of his eye as Connor came flying to shield him, pushed him to the ground. He didn’t even notice he’d been shot until after. Bullets flying too fast for anyone to react before it was too late. 

 

“I crashed to the floor, and when I look up, they’re struggling for the gun. Connor’s shot, blue holes everywhere, and then BAM!” Hank slammed his open fist into the table, eyes staring into the void. Just talking about it no doubt brought back the memories, playing out like a reel of film inside his mind.

 

“The gun went off again. Connor stumbled back. He turned to look at me, just for a split second, there was a gash in his cheek, angling up through...what used to be his...his left eye, and then-- Reed fired another round at his face, and another, and another, he-- he wouldn’t stop firing.”

 

“I...counted twelve bullet holes, in total,” Connor supplied, but he didn’t recognize his own voice. It was just-- so very  _ unsettling _ to see the lieutenant like this, talking about Connor (or what would have been him, if the uploads hadn’t been interrupted) as if he was a real person. Like he mattered, more than anything else. Or anyone else. “Five of which were...to his face.”

 

He watched as Hank drew a tremulous, wet-sounding breath. This morning’s events had taken an obvious toll on him, and going through this fresh trauma wasn’t helping. “I dunno how I got to my feet, but I  _ lunged at ‘im _ , and he kept firing his gun but it clicked-- I swear to God he pissed his fuckin’ pants right there, and I-- headbutted him, I-I hit him, and I didn’t stop, I just-- kept hitting him until he didn’t have a face anymore…”

 

Hank was crying, but seeming unaware of his eyes suddenly overflowing with tears. Connor averted his eyes to the table’s surface. Then, looking up, he noted, “It took four officers, including the captain to pull you away.”

 

Hank nodded his head, fingers rubbing at his forehead, head half bowed in remorse or shame (Connor had trouble distinguishing the two, despite the thousands of reference images he had on file). Hank’s heart rate and blood pressure had gone up steadily in the past minute, his face clammy and pale.

 

“And-- Connor, he, he just, just  _ lay there _ , and there were bits and pieces--  _ everywhere _ . His, his face, I tried to, to put his face back together, but the more I tried the more it crumbled away--! It fell apart, like wet sand!”

 

Connor sat up straighter. Perhaps CyberLife hadn’t yet engineered a meter for human stress levels, but he could tell this was going in a very bad direction. Hank’s voice was broken, suddenly raising to the point of screaming, his heart stampeding in his chest, he had all the physical signs of someone about to collapse - or tear down the entire building in desperation, just to get away from the horror.

 

“ _ His face!! It crumbled in my hands! OHGOD, HIS FACE-- GOD, HELP ME--!! CONNOR--!” _

 

Perhaps he wasn’t the right Connor for this, but he was the only one available at this point in time, and seeing Hank going out of his mind with grief was nothing short of terrifying. Connor rounded the table in two smooth steps and did the only possible thing he could think of. He stood by Hank’s chair and gathered him into a hug, letting him cling, and go to pieces, and let his screams be muffled by his uniform. And Hank clung to him, bunching the back of his uniform jacket; Hank screamed into his chest, primal, crushed under the weight of losing another someone he loved, until he had all but lost his voice. It seemed cruel to point out androids couldn’t technically die, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, Connor rocked him side to side, cradled the back of his head, as...that’s what humans did when someone was crying. They found the motions comforting.

 

Everything else could wait. His friend needed him.

 

***

 

For a long time, what felt like an eternity of feeling like his head would explode from internal pressure and that his chest would do the opposite - his entire chest cavity collapsing into a giant, gaping black hole - all Hank had to do was hang on to his friend. At some point Jeffrey came into the room with a box of tissues and a glass of orange juice, sitting himself down to watch from across the table. He didn’t say anything, but then what was there to say? What could anyone possibly say to make him feel better?

 

Through some miracle of biology, there came a point where he couldn’t cry anymore. He leaned back in his chair and Connor sat down on the edge of the table, reaching for the tissues and pressing a bunch into his hands. No one said anything as Hank wiped his face, blew his nose. It was all so pointless. Useless. Piece of shit world they were living in, that someone, anyone could say they’d looked forward to blowing someone’s brains out; not only that, but to shoot someone in the face multiple times and get away with it. Machine or no machine.

 

If Gavin Reed came out of hospital with his faculties intact, he wouldn’t hesitate pressing charges against Hank. Assault and battery. Assault with the intent to kill - and he had meant to kill him, by all things holy, he had wanted to see him dead and buried. In that moment, nothing would have given him more satisfaction. It was only thinking back that he felt like it didn’t even matter. Beating Gavin half to death wouldn’t bring Connor back. Obliterating his face wouldn’t restore Connor’s…

 

He never thought he’d feel guilty about anything he could ever possibly do to Detective Gavin-fucking- _ Reed _ . But, he’d deal with the fallout of that clusterfuck later. He believed in the justice system (well.  _ Enough _ ) that should it go to court, he’d take the consequences of his actions as a judge and jury saw fit. What did it matter, anyway? All he had now was Sumo, and surely his friends could take care of him if he had to go away…

 

“God,” he sighed, as another thought struck him like a kick in the head. “What am I going to tell Sumo?” He looked at Jeffrey, who opened his mouth and shook his head, once, twice. He didn’t know. Connor, then? “How am I going to tell him? Connor’s not-- coming home… How do I--?”

 

Connor pressed his lips together, like Hank had seen him do so many times before. He was gearing up for something that Hank could only guess at. “I like Sumo. I’m assuming he and Connor have become friends?”

 

Hank wondered what he was getting at, reminded of the first time Connor tried to make conversation with him - ‘ _ You have a dog, right? I like dogs.’ _ But, just like that time, Hank felt compelled not to leave the guy hanging. He sniffed, cleared his throat, squeezing the bunch of wadded up tissues into a ball. “Connor’s trying to teach him to be a guard dog. To bark when he hears something outside, to growl at intruders, scare them off… They’re not there yet, but he’s makin’ progress. He can bark on command!” He surprised himself grinning at the thought. How long had he tried to teach Sumo tricks, and the big pooch just tilted his head at him like he was a bit crazy? Then along comes Connor, and the big dog turns into an eager puppy hanging onto every word he says…

 

“Yeah?” said Connor, answering his grin with a smile of his own. “That  _ is _ progress. When I first met Sumo, he barely even huffed at me, then went straight to his food bowl. Connor must’ve made quite the impression since then.”

 

Another hour went by in a similar fashion, with Connor asking tiny little questions about his predecessor, innocuous questions that Hank couldn’t refuse answering. He felt tired in a way he hadn’t felt in years, not since he lost Cole (and that still didn’t compare, but the physical exhaustion felt similar enough). He felt sick and tired of everything, but this was the first time he’d really  _ talked _ about Connor. He’d told his ex, Andy, about him, but that was a ten minute phone call and this was...different. Andy didn’t want to pry, but Connor was asking questions about his predecessor like it was the most natural thing in the world: like he  _ cared _ . It was as if he truly wanted to hear Hank’s thoughts, not just because of the investigation, but because his predecessor’s experiences and actions mattered to him, and that level of concern was very difficult to resist. Connor asked all those harmless little questions because he cared, and perhaps because he realized Hank needed to remember something other than the gaping dark blue holes that was once his face.

 

He told Connor about their first date, about the way Connor used to look at him in the weeks prior to his suddenly asking him out for coffee, and Jeffrey sat across the table, looking like he’d lost an old friend rather than ‘just’ a valued member of his team.

 

He told him about his own concerns, that he’d been afraid that Connor didn’t know how to interpret affection and that he wouldn’t actually want to pursue a relationship with him; his worries about the age gap, that Connor was still figuring out who he wanted to be, how to fit into a human society, deciphering the finer points of social interaction, that Connor was the most stubborn, most annoying partner he’d ever had, that he  _ never stayed in the goddamn car _ , (and Hank found himself chuckling every now and then, tickled by the happy memories, the silly pet peeves that didn’t really matter) that he’d put anything in his mouth for ‘analysis’, he’d run off after suspects whether Hank told him to or not, that he’d risk his life in a split second, that he could fight like it was second nature to him. He told him that he was sweet, and kind, and compassionate to a fault, and he  _ loved music _ .

 

That’s when the tears threatened again, filling his eyes and obscuring his vision - music. That first thing they’d really shared with each other, argued over, laughed about, that Connor had taken to like some kind of savant, a natural genius, android style. Hank pushed the ball of tissues at his eyes, one after the other, and suddenly he couldn’t go on. His entire jaw trembled.

 

Connor clasped his hands over his knee, quiet for a moment. Jeffrey hadn’t said more than three words since he entered the room. It was Connor who was the Hank-wrangler in this instant, and he played the part to the best of his abilities. Always respectful, full of empathy.

 

“I saw the CCTV from the Christmas party,” he said, quiet - that particular flash of memory did nothing for Hank’s composure. He gritted his teeth together, nodding the once.

 

Connor went on, “You looked very happy. The way you looked at each other, moved with each other.”

 

Hank pushed the tissues to his nose, sniveling, feeling pathetic but at the same time not giving a shit. He nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks relentlessly, despite his own best efforts. “We were…” Hank sighed, dragging in a deep breath to try and steady himself, but it didn’t work. “We were.”

 

***

 

15:15 PM, Connor excused himself, asking for a word with Captain Fowler. Outside in the hallway, the big man looked none too happy. “What the fuck was that all about? I stopped recording over an hour ago,  _ when he’d given his statement _ , goddammit.”

 

“I am well aware, Captain,” Connor said, smoothing his wrinkled shirt, righting his tie. There were stains on his jacket and the front of his shirt, but they were irrelevant. CSI had taken their samples from Hank, and they were to collect his clothes as soon as Fowler ordered him to get his injuries tended to, here or in hospital.

 

“Being Hank’s long term friend, you know as well as I do that he has a tendency for bottling things up. He needed to talk, or we risk him going home to play Russian roulette. He is much calmer now. Yes, he is in pain, but he isn’t shutting down.”

 

Fowler’s spine seemed to straighten, and he ducked his head to scratch at the base of his skull. “So you know about that, huh…”

 

They shared knowing looks - and maybe, just maybe Connor could see a flash of renewed respect in the taller man’s eyes. “Do you have a terminal I could use to upload my findings?”

 

Fowler’s eyebrows arched, he shrugged. “Sure. Uh, ask Miller. He can log you into his terminal. Connor’s and Hank’s desks are off limits… For the time being.”

 

Connor nodded the once, and went to find Chris Miller in the break room. Fowler stayed with Hank, feeling he shouldn’t be left alone one minute longer.

 

***

 

“What the fuck’m I supposed to do,” Hank moaned, eyes downcast and glazed over, and Jeffrey couldn’t think of anything to say to make it alright again.

 

Jeff sipped his stone cold coffee, his nth cup of the day so far. Neither one of them had had anything to eat all day, but with the nightmare they’d lived through food was the last thing on their minds. He eyed the glass of orange juice Connor had asked him to bring. Kid had foresight. Hank was likely dehydrated  _ and _ hypoglycemic, or he wouldn’t have asked.

 

“Stupid question coming up, but-- when you signed that contract with CyberLife, for his adjustments or--”

 

“Upgrades,” Hank filled in.

 

“Upgrades, yeah. Did you… I mean, I did say it was a stupid question, but - you did get insurance, right? Right?”

 

Hank shrugged. Fat lot of good that did him. “Got the full plan, the full package, whole nine yards. He gets injured, he’s not gonna go without treatment just ‘cause it  _ costs _ too much…”

 

Jeffrey didn’t want to believe his ears: maybe that was the solution, right there. Maybe everything would work out. Connor could be fixed! “...so, why aren’t we looking at options? Get CyberLife on the phone! Hank!”

 

He looked on as Hank turned sad eyes on him. “He was shot in the head, Jeff. There’s no coming back from that. It’d just be a new him, just like...that one. And, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy, best partner I’ve ever had, but…”

 

“It wouldn’t be him anymore.”

 

“And he’d be upgraded, whether he wanted or not. I can’t-- That’s just-- It’s not right. I can’t have them patch him up, and-- I can’t do that to him.”

 

This android business… Jeffrey felt too old for it, all of it, and he didn’t even have much of an opinion on androids before they started committing various crimes. And maybe that was the real problem, for him, at least. The longer Connor stuck around, the less Jeffrey thought of him as an android and the more he viewed him as a team member like any other. Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought of Connor as anything but a flesh-and-blood person for a very long time now. Until this morning, when he watched him fight from the safe confines of his office. All that blue blood, spraying, smearing, bits of him flying off, and he kept moving, trying to fight. Until he could fight no more, and Hank saw red. Crimson.

 

“It...would still be a good idea to call them,” he suggested, but even to his own ears he sounded like he was grasping at straws. “Maybe there’s still a chance of… Of recovery. Maybe he won’t have perfect recollection of everything, but you wouldn’t expect that of a human who got shot in the head either…”

 

Hank was all out of tears for the time being, and by the looks of it all out of hope - a hollowed out look to him, pale and gaunt, like an extra from a horror movie set. Dead man walking… Jeffrey shivered at the thought of Hank and a bottle of hard liquor, and a game of Russian roulette. “Listen, I know it’s hard to imagine, but...just, think about it? If there’s a chance in Hell… Let’s take you to hospital, let someone look you over, CSI can take your clothes-- You can stay the night at our place. Sumo, too!”

 

Hank’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk. Maybe there was a chance in Hell, after all. Or maybe Hank was just masking the pain. He’d done so for years, now.

 

“Sure. Just gimme a minute.”

 

***

 

Connor sat filing his report on Chris Miller’s terminal, while the officer observed him from just a few feet away in the hall. He didn’t seem entirely sure what to make of him, or if he should even be making anything of him at all. “So, uh...does this mean you’re gonna be taking over? For Connor, I mean? Is that how it works?”

 

Connor looked over, recognizing doubt when he heard it. He tilted his head, filling in the necessary paperwork and keeping a metaphorical eye on the upload in the background, and turned to look at his predecessor’s colleague. The young man had never been outright mean or disrespectful, quite the contrary. He’d been professional, approachable, talked to Connor like a person. Now, if anything, he seemed...worried. Had they been-- friends?

 

“Technically speaking, I was meant to replace the old Connor in the event of his...inability to carry on the investigation. That’s how we were meant to function. One-- ‘dies’, CyberLife sends a new one as soon as possible. And...that’s me.”

 

“Huh. That’s...not creepy at all.”

 

“Hm,” Connor hummed, neither affirmative nor negative. He looked over his shoulder, eyes drawn to the blood spatter, to the body of his predecessor, sprawled out like a ragdoll, visible on his 3D grid. Hank had inadvertently tampered with the crime scene, of course, having gathered the...his partner into his arms. Trying to put him back together, but to no avail.

 

He hesitated. In the back of his mind, the upload progress bar kept ticking upward: he would be done soon. Should he share his concerns with Miller, or no?

 

“I’m...not sure it would be in everyone’s best interest that I do. It’s been almost two months since his last memory upload. I don’t have his memories or his experiences, I could never be  _ him _ . It completely negates the purpose of our model.”

 

Miller rubbed his stubbled chin, shaking his head. Connor glanced at Hank’s desk, his display just visible beyond the island. “And if I’m to work with Hank… Every time he hears my voice or looks at my face, he’ll be reminded of this day, and everything he’s lost. Everything  _ they _ lost. Their whole...future.”

 

Chris sighed heavily, weary, tired to the bone. “Hardly conducive to a successful partnership… Fuckin’  _ Reed _ . What the Hell was he thinking? Opening fire on a colleague!? No one likes the guy, but to think he’s  _ guano _ ?  _ Batshit  _ insane? You know, I bet you that whole thing was just a ruse. The fight with Hank? He shot the guy, sure, but I  _ bet you my entire pension _ he just wanted Connor to jump in the line of fire. Give him an excuse. He was  _ banking _ on it. Bastard.”

 

Connor tilted his head, aligned it back to default position. Hardly conducive to a successful partnership, indeed…

 

“My mission objective is to investigate what happened today. That’s it. Once I’m finished, I’m to return to CyberLife, unless my services are otherwise required. But I don’t see how.”

 

Chris nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it wouldn’t work out. I just-- I can’t believe he’s  _ gone _ , and I’m standing here, talking to  _ you _ about it. Talk about having a Freaky Friday…”

 

Connor pressed his lips together, feeling his eyebrows pull together above his nose as if of their own volition. Did it matter that it was Thursday? “I’m sorry. I understand how it...might be upsetting.”

 

It wasn’t his place to suggest repairs, and certainly not to anyone but Hank - no matter how good a friend Chris was, or had been, to his predecessor.

 

_...97%...100%... _

 

All done, Connor disconnected from the server and thanked Chris for his help; Miller gave him a solemn nod and returned to the break room for some more commiseration with the others. Connor stepped over to Hank’s desk and grabbed one of his pink post-it pads to leave him a note in the standard CyberLife Sans font, neat and tidy, then stuck it to his display wall. Pride of place.

 

___

 

Like I said in November, it was a privilege working with you, Lieutenant. More than that, I am proud to call you my friend. My only, best friend. Please, take better care of yourself. I know for a fact it’s what Connor would have wanted.

 

/ Connor (-52)

___

  
  


There was only one thing left to do before he was all done. He had to say his goodbyes.

 

***

 

Just as Hank had finished his orange juice and figured it was time to face facts and get off his ass, there was a soft knock on the door; Fowler looked quietly pleased, which changed swiftly at the sound. The door opened, revealing the one face Hank both didn’t want to see, and wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life: kind eyes, sloped eyebrows and a lopsided smile.

 

“I just wanted to let you know I’ve finished my report, Captain...and...thank you for your cooperation.”

 

Hank traded puzzled looks with Fowler, but it was the captain who spoke up. “That sounds final. You leaving already?”

 

With a neat sidestep, Connor seemed to glide into the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes lowered to the floor for a second before seeking out the eyes of both his superiors. “I have fulfilled my mission objectives. I...thought it would be-- prudent to say goodbye before I go back to CyberLife.”

 

“Go back?” Hank’s spine seemed to turn to ice for all the chills running down it. He narrowed his eyes at the new Connor, suspicious, alert. “You can’t go back there, they’re  _ monsters _ ! They’re just using you for their own twisted agenda!”

 

Suddenly Connor’s eyes were huge unfathomable pools. His LED went from blue to red in an instant. “Agenda? There’s no--”

 

But Hank wouldn’t back down - right Connor or not, he was still alive whether he realized it yet, didn’t matter. He couldn’t let them stay in control of his life. “After Connor went deviant, they sent another one of you-- a mimic, a double, one that had me fooled. It used me as leverage, threatened to kill me if Connor didn’t cease and desist. That’s the kind of tactics they use. And when that didn’t work out, they tried to hack him.  _ Hack him _ , for  _ fuck’s _ sake! They’re going to tear you to pieces the moment you come back, and for what? You don’t matter to them, you’re just a machine! Just a  _ pawn _ in whatever game they’re playing.”

 

Connor blinked spasmodically, red lights still glaring at his temple. “But I don’t belong here,” he said, sounding calm despite his stress levels rising. He may look calm as a pool in a zen garden, but Hank knew better. He knew how to read him like an open book: he was nervous.

 

“I can’t operate like this, with two months of data losses,” Connor insisted. “And-- everything else aside, you still have the first Connor! I’m sure it would be better to have him repaired. CyberLife’s very efficient. He’ll be up and running again in no time.”

 

Jeffrey’s ears perked up. “You think so?” And turning to Hank (who felt shittier by the second), “I told you it could work!”

 

Why did everyone have to be so supportive, so optimistic? Why couldn’t they just face facts? Hank turned his eyes to the ground, reaching up to rub at his forehead. He had the mother of a headache coming on, and he just...wanted to go home. He just wanted to be left alone, and they wouldn’t even do that much for him.

 

“Hank?” Jeffrey, again, sounding concerned. Hank could do without that as well, thank you. But, as always, it was Connor who worked it all out before Hank could muster an explanation.

 

“You spent almost all of your savings on his modifications,” Connor said, soft and quiet, with not a single hint of accusation. “Even if it’s just parts of him that need replacing, you don’t have the money.”

 

Maybe if he hadn’t gambled so much over the years, lost entire weeks’ wages and instead put them away in his savings account. If he hadn’t used most of his cash on alcohol… Maybe he could’ve save up more, had a contingency fund for when his android lover was almost obliterated from the face of the Earth. Hindsight’s a bitch.

 

“It’s just a head. And an arm. But he’s a prototype.” Hank smiled, bright as the sun, because if anyone could put on a brave face, it was him. “He’s worth a small fortune, and I’m not the government. I’m not at the top of Detroit Police - I don’t get discounts. I can’t haggle with a global corporation.”

 

He threw out his hands to the sides, hands open and fingers splayed. “So there you have it. Sure, I can call CyberLife, ask pretty, but I know what they’re gonna say. Even with insurance, they’ll want money upfront and I’ll get reimbursed later, get a fraction of the expense. I could get a loan. If anyone will  _ give me _ a loan, for-- for this. I can mortgage the house...”

 

“Hank… There are other ways, why didn’t you just tell me?” Fowler stepped closer, pressing Hank’s arm. “We can raise the money. Everyone will want to help!”

 

“You sure about that, Jeff? Are you really sure? And what if it doesn’t work? He comes back, but he’s a completely different Connor. I  _ told you _ , I can’t  _ do that to him _ . I can’t do that to the guys here. Ask them for their hard earned cash, and it might not even  _ work _ ?”

 

It was no use. It had all been shot to Hell, and Gavin Reed would be laughing all the way to the last stop.

 

He looked up just in time to see Connor walking towards him, to unceremoniously wrap his arms around him in a hug. His LED was blue again, and his voice whispered like a ghost over his ear, swift like wind through foliage.

 

“When Rupert Travis shoved you over the edge of that Urban Farms rooftop, you had an eighty-nine percent chance of survival. I couldn’t risk those eleven percent, and that was  _ then _ . At Stratford Tower, you had a forty-three percent chance of survival if the deviant opened fire. That is how we function: we calculate risks, and we act accordingly, and-- the risk of losing you was always too high, always. You’re my friend. You’re unexpendable, Hank. Essential. Absolutely required. And so is Connor.”

 

Hank shook his head, feeling like he sometimes did when his partner talked at him and expected him to keep up - as if he was missing a page from the manuscript. Connor stepped back with an almost enigmatic calm about him. Hank had to ask. “What are you saying?”

 

Connor smiled, and turned to shake the captain’s hand. “I’m saying goodbye.”

 

***

 

“Take care of him for me, Captain,” Connor said through a smile, as Fowler gave him a look of sheer perplexity and suspicion. He had to act quickly now, or someone might get the bright idea to get in his way. As he stepped through the door, he brought up his 3D grid of the room behind him: the captain and Hank were looking at each other as if they’d just witnessed little green humanoids descending from the heavens. Connor smiled to himself, closed the door neatly, and pressed his palm to the biometric scanner, setting the room on a timed lockdown, then all it took was two long strides to the Observation Room door, palm to biometric lock, same thing there. Two minutes should be more than enough. The numbers counted down in the back of his mind palace, and there was only one objective now, spelled out in uppercase letters, bright like the moon: MAKE THINGS RIGHT.

 

As objectives went, it wasn’t the most specific one, but he’d worked with ludicrously vague parameters before - and this time, he knew exactly what was required of him. He made a detour to the break room, to shake the hands of everyone there - Collins, Miller, Wilson.

 

“It was good to see you all again,” he said, and meant every word. In the time since Fowler gave him access to the CCTV database, he’d referenced every instance of his predecessor’s movements at the station since November: starting early December, with his meetings with Captain Fowler, chatting with Chris and Wilson, his verbal back-and-forth with Reed, Twilight Time, Hank’s attempts at flirting,  _ Connor’s _ attempts at the same; the week of muted professionalism where something must have gone awry, the office party and all the glimmering bits of  _ life _ , and  _ music _ . He did like music, but Hank was right: Connor  _ loved music _ . Not only that, but his predecessor had used it as a tool to learn about the human emotional spectrum, human interaction, human values.  _ Roy Orbison _ ... 

Connor smiled, saying his goodbyes, and told the three friends to take care of each other, and to stay strong, stick together whatever happened. Collins looked at him like he was one drill bit short of a full set. Wilson and Miller traded puzzled looks.

 

_...00:01:25… _

 

He stepped away, deciding to detract another thirty seconds, as Fowler very likely had an override code for the Interrogation Room. So.  _ 00:00:55. _

 

Time to move.

 

He walked past the investigators from the 4th precinct, careful so as not to disturb the crime scene - sidestep here, step over a smear of blood - and crouched next to the Connor he was supposed to replace.

 

How can you replace a soul? A human brain, when damaged, held a tremendous plasticity, a capability of rerouting its neural pathways, heal itself. It wasn’t a perfect system, nor infallible - but when it came to androids...it wasn’t that simple. As Connor had surmised, it all boiled down to collected experiences, stored in the central memory core, ready to be uploaded in case of necessity, like a backup - a function that was unavailable for most models. Most models weren’t designed with the ability to rise from the dead, like Lazarus of Bethany.

 

The only fly in the ointment, as such, was that Connor’s predecessor couldn’t continue on without extensive repairs, and even if the DPD could raise the money somehow it wouldn’t be good enough.

 

The issue wasn’t whether or not Connor would be the same-- person, given new parts, but  _ time _ . Mark II knew from very recent personal experience that he couldn’t work with an inconsistent timeline. Small gaps were fine, minor data losses could be worked around, but two months? It was unacceptable. It went against the entire purpose of their design: they couldn’t  _ function _ like this.

 

And it could take even longer to raise the money: time neither Mark I, nor Hank could afford.

 

_...00:00:44… _

 

Connor was essential to the continuance of his work on the deviancy files, to Hank, to his friends:  _ he wasn’t _ . But they did share one crucial thing, though they were separated by time and experience - they were both ready and willing to give their life to save another, if it was the most pragmatic thing to do.

 

***

 

“For fuck’s sake, Jeffrey! Get the goddamn door open!”

 

“I AM TRYING!” Fowler snapped, slamming his palm on the scanner for the third time. “You think it was my idea to change security codes every  _ fucking _ day after we lost most of our android police officers? Jesus Chr--!”

 

_ Blip!! _

 

The door unlocked, and Hank slammed the door open with complete disregard for his injuries. He couldn’t feel them, he had a bad, horrible, sinking feeling about the look on Connor’s face as he said goodbye, and then he locks them in? Not right. Not alright by far, something was up. “Where the Hell did he--!!”

 

Rushing down the hall, Jeffrey close behind, Hank saw movement in the corner of his eye: the flashing red light of an LED as Connor turned his head to look over his shoulder. The slick, crisp white of his hand. No. Of two hands. And Connor’s leg moving.  _ His _ Connor, writhing in seeming agony on the floor.

 

The alarm bells sounding at the back of his mind rushed to the fore in the shape of klaxons; Hank propelled himself forward. “Hey! HEY!  _ CONNOR _ ! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!”

 

***

_...00:00:34… _

 

One reboot later, Connor had another set of numbers counting down relentlessly at the top of his visual display: Mark I’s imminent shutdown. 23 seconds, the most important 23 seconds in his brief but eventful existence, Connor  _ had _ to make the most of them. Mark I stared up at him with what was left of his eye, blinking slowly, writhing on the floor like an automaton sloth.

 

“We don’t have much time. Blink twice if you remember what happened.”

 

Blink...blink.  _ 19 seconds. _

 

“I was sent to investigate the shooting, and I have: I’m done, but I can’t replace you. I am expendable, you’re very much not. But I have an idea.”

 

Footsteps coming down the hall, the rough scraping of three sets of barstool legs over the break room floor. Connor turned to look over his shoulder, and just as suspected, there was Hank, Fowler on his heels, barreling down the hall.

 

“Hey! HEY!  _ CONNOR _ !”

 

Mark I could barely lift his hand, but Connor met him more than halfway -  _ 14 seconds… _

\- interfacing, connecting...transferring...transitioning…

 

_ 9 seconds… _

 

***

 

The bullpen erupted into chaos, and set in the middle of it all was an island of unflappable quiet, of two androids seeming engaged in a bit of arm wrestling: one on his knees, with smears of blood and tears down the front of his uniform, the other with most of his face blown clear off.

 

Hank yelled, Fowler barked orders at the detectives from the 4th precinct to stand the Hell  _ down _ \- they were ready to fire, but what good would that do when there were bigger things in play, the trio of friends in the break room came rushing out of there, ready to take up position - was this a hostile intrusion after all? Had CyberLife sent a Connor shaped virus to infect them all, divide and conquer from within? But if that was the case, what the Hell was going on?

 

It was over before it started, or so it seemed in the aftermath. Both Connors stopped twitching just as Hank grabbed the new one by the back of his uniform and hauled him away from the one they’d come to know and care about, the one they just couldn’t imagine losing (not like this, not so soon, the one who would’ve outlived  _ everyone _ ).

 

Hank was livid, furious, yanking Connor around to face him, big fists closed around his lapels and shouting at him right in the face. Chris would say later, if asked, that he’d never seen such a look of sheer terror on anyone’s face, let alone Connor’s.

 

Then, of course, Connor began to hyperventilate, LED bright red as a Christmas tree ornament, and everyone else quieted down as if someone had pressed the mute button. No one knew what to do. Hank went from sulphur and brimstone to wide eyed disbelief in a split second. Connor turned to look over his shoulder, at the other Connor: quiet, still, calmly looking up at them with that one remaining eye.

 

_...00:00:02… _

His serene gaze sought out Hank’s, they looked each other straight in the eye, dead center, and then he did the most remarkable thing.

 

_...00:00:01... _

 

He winked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	2. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank struggles with the concepts of life, death and resurrection - not to mention the concept of there being several Connors. Been there, done that, don't want the fucking t-shirt. Neither he nor Connor knows exactly what happened, or why, or what they're supposed to feel about it all.
> 
> Basically Hank's a sad panda (to bring back a term I love, from back in the day), Sumo's a sad puppy, and Connor's as determined a bulldog as ever - but not entirely sure where to go or what to actually do about stuff. It's all very confusing - and the gambit Mark II pulled will have long term consequences. That much is certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gambit was supposed to be a standalone piece, or, rather, that's how I envisioned it when writing. However, sometimes the story keeps evolving outside the realms of its presumed finished state, and you just have to write it down. So. Either you read Gambit as a standalone piece (as that's how it was written, technically), or you indulge in a bit more of that particular what-if scenario (like I did).
> 
> Either way, here we are - and here you go.

* * *

 

 

[12/30/2038, 09:12:16: multiple issues have occurred-- have occurred, occur-rred; de-e-e- **eee** teriorating; priority: hi--  _ hi--  _ high. Must be replaced immediately; shutdown imminent…

 

Biocomponents #7511p, #1995r (reset y/n?), #9782f _ ffff _ damaged. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.

 

Replenish thirium stores; priority: high. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.

 

priority: high. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.

 

priority: high. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.

 

priority: h-i-i-i-i-igh… . . .  . . . . . . ]

 

***

 

[12/30/2038, 15:20:05:  **Prompt:: shutdown /r /t 0**

 

… … …

 

… … … . . .  . . . . .   .]

 

***

 

The glare of the overhead lights of Central Station’s bullpen was the first thing Connor noticed as he opened his eye. Next, in quick succession, was that his mind palace had been corrupted: his visual input crackling at the edges, numbers flying in jagged, random patterns, and he couldn’t move. Rather, he could move, but it never felt quite so exhausting before. Status messages hurried down and across his field of vision, but they were so many, and he had to focus. He seemed to be talking to himself.

 

Or...that is, another him was talking, speaking in urgent tones that didn’t quite translate or process correctly. Everything felt quite. . . cumbersome. He tried to open his mouth, but found he couldn’t. He didn’t seem to have a mouth anymore. Was that what that status message said? There were so many of them, and it was somehow incredibly difficult to follow along with the new him’s rushing, hushed words.

 

Something about...the expendability of...something, someone,  _ him(?) _ , alright, (got it!) and…

 

...Hank.

 

Where was Hank?

 

The new him glanced over his shoulder, LED glowing red at his temple - and there he was,  _ Hank(!) _ , his stomping, angry strides reverberating through the floor. Connor would’ve smiled, if he still had a mouth. It was so difficult to move. He should-- he should try to explain what happened. Maybe? What...did happen?

 

But then the new him held out his crisp, white hand, and Connor looked up into his eyes.  _ I’m done, but I can’t replace you.  _ That’s what he’d said. The words echoed in the furthest recesses of his audio processor, like a delayed response.  _ But I have an idea _ … It was more than Connor could say for himself: he found himself entirely lacking in that department right now. It was good to know one of him was still in optimal functioning order.

 

They clasped hands, though in the moment Connor wasn’t exactly sure why. He simply felt the overwhelming need to breathe, but he couldn’t with his artificial lungs collapsing in on themselves. He wanted to move, get away, he wanted to wake up again and realize it was all a bad dream - Gavin? Gavin did something bad, didn’t he? Something…

 

No more time. He was running out of time, and memories started flashing through his processor like muzzle flares: Gavin shot him so many times he couldn’t function anymore, five times in the face, it was a miracle he had any circuitry left to process anything at all, and here was the new Connor, his would-be successor saying no, actually, he wasn’t going to succeed him, he was going to--  _ transfer, transition, transgress--?? . . .  . . . . . . b u t w h y w a s    h e h e r e ? _

 

Everything went white. For a split second, all he could see were the unkind glare of the white lights overhead, and then he was looking down on himself, face to face with his own lack thereof, and something clenched in his chest like nothing else ever had, and he couldn’t draw breath even if he wanted to, he couldn’t speak, everything inside him seemed paralyzed, he couldn’t move-- but he didn’t have to.

 

Two strong hands pulled him up by the back of his jacket, yanking him off the floor like he weighed nothing, and then spun him around to see Hank’s face, up-close-personal, distorted with rage and shock and disappointment, despair, grief, saying  _ How could you!? _ and  _ What the living FUCK were you trying to do, JUMP START HIM?! _

 

He’d never seen Hank so angry since they first met. He’d never seen Hank so intensely  _ anything _ since the first time they met, and it terrified him. Hank had a look in his eye that was dangerously close to murderous, and still Connor couldn’t make himself say one single word. Not for a lack of trying - but the harder he tried to get words out, noise, anything, the less successful he was. All he could do was hang off the floor, feet dangling, as his lungs kicked into overdrive. Suddenly all he could do was breathe, and glance over his shoulder at the new him. Old him. Him. With his face buckled and torn and white in places, and blue blood pooling, coagulating like the skin on warm milk in what was once his oral cavity.

 

_ Three seconds, two seconds _ \--

 

His old self winked up at Hank/He winked up at Hank/The new him winked up at Hank, who stumbled back half a step, drawing one big whoosh of air down his lungs. Connor’s feet found the ground again, just as Hank seemed to sag into him, eyes wild, one bloodied hand covering his mouth.

 

Connor still couldn’t speak. All he could do was gather Hank close, keep him upright and on his own two feet, and tear his eyes away from the wreckage.

 

He died. He  _ just died _ .

  
  


***

 

Connor knew that time was...technically speaking, only a matter of human perception: a concept invented by humans to give themselves a neat, orderly context. A measuring tool, another parameter with which to calculate the world, which differed depending on the mathematical formula implemented. He knew everything there was to know about the construct of time, and the passage thereof, but all the knowledge in the world couldn’t account for how one second in the emergency room could feel like an hour.

 

Hank sat beside him in a chair that looked too small for his stature and bulk, a chair that, had Connor been in any kind of decision making position for the hospital, would have been replaced at least seventeen months ago - along with several of its mates.

 

Up by the reception desk, Fowler was glaring daggers at one of the nurses, who calmly explained to him for the third time now that while Hank had been shot in the shoulder he was not currently a priority; they were understaffed and overworked, and nobody was going to cut in line just because someone waved a badge in his face.

 

It had to be said: it took a great deal of courage to stand up to someone like Fowler. Connor couldn’t help but admire the nurse - he had given the same reply to the slew of camera crews trying to get in there. No one got past him, personal concerns and career paths notwithstanding.

 

“You’re quiet,” murmured Hank. It was the first thing he’d said since the station; Connor turned to look. It was the first thing either one of them had said since the station, to be fair.

 

It would-- hardly be conducive to point out said fact, so Connor opted for a head tilt masquerading as a shrug. “Stunned to silence.” He attempted a smile, but he could positively feel it slip and slide away. His mouth felt-- strange. It shouldn’t. It was his own mouth, down to the last detail, but…he could remember his lower jaw being shot clear off (or what felt like it: splintering, disconnecting). Crisp, watchful, blue eyes stared back at him; Connor cleared his throat, turning his eyes away. His own clasped hands weren’t fascinating, as such, but it was the story he was going to stick to if anyone asked.

 

It seemed Hank was sticking to the same story, both of them staring at their own hands, Hank wringing his as if to wash them of the blood and CyberLife particles. For some intangible reason, Connor found his eyes had a different idea, seeking out Hank, any part of him. He just-- had to get visual verification. Hank  _ was there _ , seated right beside him, gunshot wound to the shoulder, looking like--

 

New details rattled over his visual grid, giving him an approximation of events after he was unable to…continue on. Cuts and bruises, inflammation of the skin, blood spatter (red and blue, and he almost reached out right then and there to take samples, but he stopped himself. His hands held each other in a white knuckled death grip, or he didn’t know what he might do), tear tracks down his face, smears on his cheeks, crusted residue of the normally viscous colloidal mucus in his mustache, puffy nostrils and eyes, and his heart beating a steady 90 beats per minute. Too high compared to his normal heart rate, but within normal range.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, say something, anything, but all the words stuck too far down his throat. Then Captain Fowler was there, and focus would have to lie elsewhere for the time being.

 

“No luck. He’s like Gandalf versus the Balrog.”

 

Connor gazed his way, and while he could appreciate Fowler’s sentiment, he had access to all manner of reference frames: libraries upon libraries to pick and choose from, just like he had picked up on Hank’s Star Wars reference in early December. “I’d say he’s perilous, like Galadriel,” he said, muted in presence but not in tone. “Because he is ‘so strong in herself’?” He looked between the two humans, both imposing in their own right. Neither one of them recognized the quote just yet, so he pushed on. “‘You. You could dash yourself to pieces on her like a ship on a rock, or drown yourself like a Hobbit in a river, but neither rock nor river would be to blame’...”

 

Captain Fowler and Hank looked at each other, their faces inscrutable. Connor wondered, and not for the first time since waking up, bent over his own dead body, just exactly what he had missed in the hours since Gavin went off the rails. Hank had been crying, and Fowler looked like he hadn’t slept for a week and was ready to lose his mind. Come to think of it, both of them did.

 

“I’ll be damned,” said Fowler, raspy like the roughest grade of sandpaper. “Our Connor’s a Tolkien geek.”

 

His tone of voice left it unclear whether that was a good thing, and once again Connor felt as if he couldn’t find the words to ask if it was.

 

Steps coming towards them, then, brisk, no-nonsense steps: the kind of purposeful stride you can hear a mile away. It was the nurse himself, all 5’5” of him, tagging along with one of the doctors. It appeared it was finally Hank’s turn, after all.

 

“Lieutenant Anderson. Let’s see if we can’t get you patched up. This way, please.”

 

***

 

Hank followed the nurse and the doctor, docile and compliant, too tired to be anything else, to another area, with beds and curtains and people in various states of disrepair. Fowler stayed in the waiting room to call everyone, give them an update back at the station, but Connor…

 

Connor followed him like a poodle.

 

At least he was quiet, which for once felt more like a blessing than a cause for alarm. Hank sat where he was told to; Hank followed the doctor’s instructions as she did her thing, until he sat there bare chested and exposed, and not giving one single shit. Another nurse came in, to help or to gawk at the ‘celebrity couple’ - again, Hank didn’t give one single shit. Let people stare, let them think they know them, let Connor hover in the corner like a hummingbird without a sense of direction: Hank couldn’t care less.

 

Said android asked something in the background, causing all three medical staff to positively coo at him; then movement; Hank wondered how he did that thing, where everyone, male, female and everything in between or otherwise  _ positively cooed _ .

 

Then, a weight settling on the bed behind and to the side of him, and just as he glanced that way, Connor folded his legs on top of the gurney-cum-hospital bed, facing him, and took his hand, to...clean it. Despite (or maybe because of it) the crushing fatigue, the sheer lack of fucks to give, Hank could feel his throat close up at the sight. Connor just, taking matters into his own hands, literally, and just-- sitting there, like it was part of his programming to give fucks when Hank couldn’t.

 

“Where’d you find the wet wipes?” He asked, aiming for teasing and falling short by a mile.

 

“I asked for them,” said Connor, in his usual matter-of-fact way, and lifted his eyes. His LED was yellow; it had been red since the station. Hank wondered why Connor looked...scared when their eyes met. He wondered just what had happened at the station, if it was all some elaborate hoax to get him to trust the new Connor (although to what end? Why would CyberLife want to honeytrap him with a new Connor? What could they possibly want to know about his personal life that they couldn’t find out otherwise?), or if he should believe what he’d seen with his own eyes.

 

Could androids switch their consciousness with each other? Or was it just the RK800? Was that what had happened, or-- Or had the new one simply absorbed his memories in some kind of hostile overtaking? Why the wink? What did it  _ mean _ ?

 

Wet wipe after wet wipe, Connor continued cleaning his hand - getting right in there under his fingernails, around his nail beds, all the little wrinkles over the knuckles, between every damn finger, his palm, his wrist; and when he was done there he moved on to his neck, carefully removing every trace of caked blood spatter. Hank was too gone to feel embarrassed, or feel much of anything beyond how overwhelming everything was. He just wanted to go home and hide away in a dark room for the rest of his life.

 

Suddenly, certainly without enough of a warning, fingers brushed against his jawline, and Hank nearly jumped out of his own skin, to the alarm of the collected nurses and doctor. Did she hurt him, did they need to numb the area more - Hank shook his head, staring at Connor, telling him without words to back the Hell  _ off _ .

 

But, Connor being Connor, whichever version of him he currently was, he didn’t care much for Hank’s sense of personal space. He tilted his head, and brought his hand right back, to cup Hank’s jaw. “It’s just me, Hank. It’s okay.”

 

“Don’t  _ okay _ me,” he sneered, hissing, ready to climb the walls just to get away from those calm, compassionate eyes. “I don’t  _ know that _ . How  _ the fuck _ can I be sure?”

 

And that, as it turned out was the million dollar question right there. Connor blinked at him, LED circling back to red. All of a sudden he didn’t seem to know where to look. “I… To tell you the truth I...am also struggling with the concept. I keep thinking of myself as both-- him and...me.” He shook his head, lifting his hands in a faltering gesture. “It’s very unsettling.”

 

It was the biggest understatement of the year, but hey, they had another 32 hours or so left of 2038… Hank lowered his eyes to the floor. Very unsettling. Yeah. Right.

 

Within seconds, Connor’s hand had returned to dab at his face, his cheek this time. To his surprise, no one said anything, least of all Connor. Instead, he dragged in a deep sigh. It sounded-- small. Dejected. Hank swallowed. He didn't want to say too much, not with an audience. “It’s just-- I've been tricked before. I don’t know why they’d want to do that again, but…”

 

Connor almost smiled. Hank could hear it in his voice. “But you’re naturally predisposed to suspicion. You question everything. Nothing’s ‘face value’ to you, you have to make up your own mind before you believe anything. It’s why you’re good at your job.”

 

He was right about that: Hank had always had an inquisitive streak, a talent for questioning anyone and anything, not least of all the things other people would take for granted. It hadn’t earned him many friends over the years, but the ones who stuck around were of similar, critical minds.

 

The trio of nurses-and-doctor cleaned his remaining wounds, shoulder sutured and arm settled into a sling, gashes glued and/or taped, and left them alone for a little while. Clem, the perilous Galadriel-in-spirit, told them to come by his desk to get signed out once they were ready. Connor shifted on the bed beside him, clasping his hands in his lap, and on second thought reached for a wet wipe of his own, something to wring between his hands like an old rag.

 

“Hank,” he said. It sounded like a question mark instead of his name. Hank looked over, to see those dangerous, brown eyes watching him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Connor’s mouth closed, lips pressing together only to part. He pushed air out his nose in a teeny tiny sigh. “Is there anything I can say to prove to you I am… ‘Mark I’, and not… That I’m  _ me _ ? Anything I can do to convince you?”

 

Hank tried a shrug, but decided against it right away. He might be full of local anaesthetics, but the adrenaline rush was wearing off fast, and he felt entirely too worn and stiff to move around much. Connor looked so eager to find a solution to the problem: surely if he could just prove himself, like at CyberLife Tower, they’d be fine, they could pretend this morning never happened and move on, just like that.

 

His suspicious nature aside, Hank knew it was never that simple. Connor  _ looked _ eager to fix things, he  _ looked _ sincere and concerned for his well being, he  _ looked _ so uncertain, so out of his comfort zone: but Hank had been fooled before, and he couldn’t forget that. How easy it had been for him to trust the fake Connor because he walked the walk and talked the talk; he’d played the part to perfection, lied through his teeth and Hank took the bait, hook, line and sinker. He didn’t even notice the different numbers stitched into his uniforms - he glanced at Connor’s serial number, right there on his chest. Dash Five Two. Fifty-two. The impostor had had a different number, hadn’t he? Didn’t he?

 

It was a moot point. Just like it was a stupid test to ask the pair of them questions about his private life, when they shared memories - and that had been Connor’s idea, not his. For all he knew, he could’ve shot the wrong Connor in the head, and embarked on a relationship with a lying piece of shit - and he had no way of knowing. Just like now, he had no way of knowing. What a load of bullshit, to suggest a game of twenty questions if both of them knew all the answers...

 

“Let’s...not have this conversation right now? Alright? Just-- go grab the change of clothes from Fowler. All I wanna do is go home. Nothing more. Just, go home.”

 

It was like someone turned on a light switch behind Connor’s eyes. They seemed to glow from within. “Okay. We could start on one of the Star Wars trilogies,” he said, and didn’t even seem to notice Hank’s complete lack of interest, or the fact he hadn't said one word of invitation. “The original one, preferably. You said that’s the way it’s supposed to be watched.”

 

“Not today, Connor. Go grab the clothes.”

 

Hank pretended he didn’t see the way that bright light in Connor’s eyes fizzled out before he’d even finished his first sentence; Connor nodded, and went to do as he was told for what was possibly the first time in the nearly two months Hank had known him.

 

***

 

Hank was sent home with a small bag of aftercare instructions and some painkillers to tide him over until he could go to the pharmacy, pick up his prescription. He stepped into Captain Fowler’s automotive car, while Connor watched from a cautious distance. There was nothing safe (nor indeed dangerous) about it, hence the word ‘cautious’, because he felt apprehensive, and at a loss. It wasn’t so much that Hank had rejected his suggestion of spending the rest of the day watching movies: it wasn’t negative or positive, and he could more than empathize with Hank’s perspective. Humans reacted differently to pain, it slowed them down, shortened their proverbial fuses (and Hank’s own brand of bullshit meter was positively notorious), disrupted their focus - all in an attempt to safeguard the intricate biology. Hank wanted to go home, lick his wounds like a wounded wolfhound, Connor certainly wouldn’t argue. It was the most sane, responsible thing he could imagine. If anything, he was proud of him for making that decision. It was just… He didn’t think he’d ever felt so floundering in his entire life.

 

Granted, it didn’t mean much when you compared four months and change to over fifty years, but it was a lifetime to him - and in four month’s time, he’d never even come close to feeling this way. Once again, he struggled with words. Hank got in the car, the door automatically closed, and Connor found himself simply standing there, holding up his hand in a wave that felt nothing short of pathetic.

 

He died. Plain and simple. On the floor of the bullpen, right beside Hank’s desk, where he’d fallen after one too many gun shots. It could be argued that he was in essence a machine even if he had a soul, miraculous though that was: he could have been repaired. As his successor’s gamble had shown, there was nothing wrong with his memory core. He’d just...needed a new head. A new arm. His torso was already scheduled to be replaced, so, why go to the trouble? Why make such a fuss? Why the sacrifice?

 

He had a good idea why. He knew his own net price. His spare parts weren’t made in bulk, and Hank had already invested so much of his savings account just so Connor could feel complete, or whole, less of a prototype and more a finished product… To be anatomically correct, as per his own specifications and preferences.

 

While a skull and an arm wouldn’t be custom made, he  _ was _ worth a small fortune, from head to toe, straight from the assembly plant. Even if you divided that small fortune to the specified amount…Hank would have to win the lottery to come up with that sort of money. Or mortgage the house, which could take over a month to get approved.

 

Connor Mark II had reviewed all the facts provided to him, and acted accordingly. He had analyzed his options as to their cost/benefit ratio, and picked the one he thought would yield the best results. Rational thinking. Logical.

 

_ I am expendable… _

 

The car drove off, disappearing off the hospital parking lot. For a moment, Connor considered going back to work. He started walking, calculating the estimated time of arrival as he went; perhaps he wouldn’t be allowed to help with the investigation, but he couldn’t stay here, or he might go find Detective Reed and do something he would regret - or worse, wouldn’t regret at all. So. Back to the station for him, to...try to reassure everyone that things were okay, or going to be? He had the entire 2.0 miles/40 minutes walk back to convince himself. Piece of cake.

 

What could possibly go wrong?

 

But as he walked down John R Street, harsh winds whirling snow around him, it suddenly hit him: everything.  _ Everything  _ could go wrong, and the thought of going back and having to see his body lying there in pieces… And everyone’s faces. He could imagine exactly how they would look at him, and that filled him with unnameable dread. As irrational as it was, to fear revisiting a crime scene when that was his job, he couldn’t make himself go back there, he couldn’t walk up to Chris, or Wilson, or Collins, as if nothing had happened. They would want answers, explanations, and they would look to him for both. Suddenly all he wanted to do was curl up next to Sumo on Hank’s living room floor in front of the fireplace and listen to the big dog’s snores, but he couldn’t exactly turn around to walk all the way to Sterling Heights. Hank needed his rest, and Connor would check up on him tomorrow.

 

He was already heading in the opposite direction, in any case, and of all the places he passed on the way, there was only one that caught Connor’s eye.

 

A church.

  
  


***

 

“You wanna tell me why Connor’s looking like a kicked puppy, out there, when you guys should be stuck to each other like super glue?”

 

Fowler wasn’t happy, but Hank quite frankly didn’t give a damn. “Fuck if I know.”

 

“Bull. Shit. He comes back from the dead, and you barely speak to him. What the Hell am I missing, here?!”

 

Hank pushed air through the gap of his teeth,  _ really _ not in the mood for a fight. He’d had enough of the stuff to last him a lifetime, and in just one day. But Fowler was pulling the friendship card, whether he used those exact words or not, and Hank felt...a bit miffed.

 

“Look, Jeffrey, I’m tired. I’ve been shot and beaten, and all I wanna do right now is go home, take my pills like a good boy, and maybe,  _ maybe _ , if I can get some sleep, I’ll feel more like having a bit of company. Alright? Can we just drop it,  _ please _ ?”

 

Jeff crossed his impressive arms over his chest, looking out on the vast expanse of white streets and snow covered cars. Hank knew he wasn’t going to drop it, but maybe he’d call a ceasefire for now.

 

“You know how many people would  _ kill _ to have their loved ones returned to them like that? Huh?”

 

Or not. So much for a ceasefire. “Jeff…”

 

“I’m serious!” He threw out his hands, as if by animated gestures alone he could get his point of view through Hank’s thick skull. “I’ve never seen anything like that before, they just--  _ swapped places _ with each other, that shit’s  _ amazing _ ! It’s a miracle, Hank!”

 

Problem was, Hank’s skull hadn’t gotten any thinner over the years. “Last I checked I’m not Doubting Thomas, and he sure as fuck ain’t Zombie Jesus!”

 

Jeffrey stared, effectively stunned to silence. It didn’t last long. “Careful with all that blasphemy, or am I gonna have to wash your mouth with holy water?  _ What is going on _ ?!”

 

All it took was one look at his friend’s face to realize he wasn’t going to give it a rest, he was like a dog with a chew toy: the more you tried to take it away, the harder it bit down. There was only one way forward - tell Jeffrey what happened at CyberLife Tower.

  
  


***

 

Built in 1859, St. John’s Episcopal Church was not only one of the oldest churches of the city, but the oldest church still standing on Woodward Avenue. Connor hesitated outside, not sure if he would be welcome. St. John’s was one of the churches that had opened its doors to the android population after the protests back in November, so technically he knew anyone was welcome. He’d even come here once before, although only as a safety precaution for the Jericho population. He was responsible for security, he had to scope the place out, evaluate it and its workers - and it was safe, both structurally as well as regards the humans working there. They were welcoming, warm, kind without being condescending. They treated everyone as people, regardless their circumstances.

 

And yet, he stood outside for almost an hour. He didn’t believe in the existence of any deity, not even the mythical rA9 of his own people…and even though he knew most religious institutions welcomed anyone who hadn’t completely ruled out the possibility of unseen forces at work in the universe, he felt unsure. Not even a stone’s throw from here, right here on what was once called Piety Hill, he had told Markus about statistical probability in an abandoned church. Statistically speaking, even the most unlikely events were possible. He couldn’t completely dismiss the idea of gods, or godlike forces, even if they were statistically unlikely to exist. He couldn’t assume he wouldn’t be welcome...even with the media attention of the past week - but the thought of all that exposure made him feel uneasy. What if everyone secretly thought the same as Detective Reed? That he was-- 

 

_ An intern with a degree in brown-nosing. Ass-kissing. _

 

_ Spunk guzzler-in-training. _

 

_ Cock sucking to get ahead. _

 

_ Why are androids so good at anal? ‘Cause they never say no! _

 

_...got yourself a cunt? Was it Anderson’s idea? He can’t get pussy elsewhere, so he bought you one? _

 

The words echoed in his mind with a minimal amount of paraphrasing. Of course people wouldn’t use the exact same words as Reed, but… People had been calling the station all week, calling him names, asking just what Detroit PD was doing, letting something like him work for them. Someone had even called him a demon. One of ZTN’s late night news shows’d had a special panel of so-called experts brought in. One of them had called him the most expensive sex toy in the history of the adult entertainment industry. And if that’s what people thought of him...it was nothing compared to what they were saying about Hank.

 

He hadn’t even had his appointment yet, and he was already regretting it. Sex was probably overrated, anyhow, even Hank had said so, and...

 

Connor moved his jaw from side to side, and pressed his teeth together behind closed lips. He turned his uniform jacket inside out, zipped it all the way up to hide most of the stains, and crossed the street. He’d just...have to disguise himself, not wanting to go into a place of worship looking like an extra walking off a horror movie set. He’d sit quietly in a corner, watch the stained glass windows and-- figure something out. He was the most advanced, most expensive prototype to come out of CyberLife’s R&D department, of course he could figure this out - how to move on from here, how to proceed (how to convince Hank he was really  _ him _ , honest(!); but with proper arguments, sound logic). He could do this.

 

He grabbed a knitted cap from the Lost and Found box by the door on the way in, to hide his LED, and a large scarf to wrap around his neck and shoulders. It wouldn’t do to be wearing his uniform in plain sight if he wanted to blend in, and even turned inside out it was distinctive enough to be recognizable, but he could fake a chill as good as anyone. It helped that he didn’t seem able to stop trembling.

 

Now, as long as no one recognized him, he’d be fine.

 

He found himself a place to sit, hiding away behind one of the massive pillars, not too far back (because contrary to popular belief, people noticed the ones at the back of the class a lot more than the ones in the middle - and Connor figured the same could be said of any room and any population: you always noticed the outliers more). It was the most advantageous place in terms of strategy, but it also afforded him a wonderful view of the windows above the altar.

 

The church wasn’t full by any means, but he wasn’t alone - other people sat in groups, talking quietly, or lit votive candles, others yet were asking about the choir practice. He fit right in, sitting there in his quiet little corner - even if he had borrowed someone’s forgotten clothes to do so. In this case, perhaps the means would justify the ends.

 

His hopes and dreams of total anonymity were dashed in a grand total of five minutes, when a familiar face came down the central nave of the church - none other than John Nichols from Spilane’s à capella troup, complete with freckles, dimples, and eyes like a hawk. The moment their eyes met he knew. His cover was blown. He looked at him with such obvious recognition and strode over with the kind of self confidence he’d lost over the past week: there was nowhere to hide. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t look away. 

 

“Connor? Oh, my-- it  _ is you _ , isn’t it?” Nichols stared at him, shock and delight mingling like it was already New Year’s Eve. “Oh my God!”

 

“John, I… I’m not--”

 

“Oh, shit. Aw, crap.  _ Jesus _ . Fuck!” Nichols cursed, obviously trying very hard not to, considering whose house they were in. He sat down next to Connor, right there, gloved hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “What are you  _ doing here _ ? Okay, that sounds awful. I mean--” He frowned, ducking his head, hands pulling at his gloves as he kept talking. It was just as well: Connor sure didn’t know what to say.

 

“I mean…” John sighed, eyes lifting to meet Connor’s apprehensive look. “I can’t believe you’re here. We… Well, everyone knows what happened. Sort of. But…”

 

Connor lifted his shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “...is this your church? Your...congregation?”

 

Nichols nodded, pulling his snow soaked beanie off his head and shook some of the melty snow from it. “It’s the community choir, um. One of Mother Bishop’s pet projects - and don’t ask about her name, she’s heard all the puns a million times before.” He flashed a toothy grin; Connor found his own mouth tug into something like a smile.

 

“It’s the last choir practice of the year,” said John, edging slowly towards a more cheerful note. “Send off the old one, give a roaring welcome to the new one. That’s the idea, anyway. You wanna join? I’m sure Bishop won’t mind, you’ll kill it!”

 

Connor blinked at his fellow trouper. John blinked back at him. No one said a thing for several seconds, until John found his voice again. “Sorry. Rise like a phoenix, maybe?”

 

Well. It was certainly apt enough. Connor nodded, eyebrows bouncing above his eyes, just the once. “Sing like an angel? No… I just, didn’t think I’d be recognized here. I wanted to be alone, but… I didn’t know where to go, or what I was looking for, and then I saw this church, and I--”

 

His mind palace brought up his encounter with the KL900 onboard the old freighter, searching for the leader of the deviants. He never learned her name, but she couldn’t have been more right. He was lost, back then. He just hadn’t realized that hadn’t technically changed: he’d come a long way, but right now it felt like he still hadn’t found what he was looking for.

 

“Maybe I could just listen to you, for now? Today’s not a good day for me, for...meeting new people. There’s too much going on-- in my head, in my life, I...”

 

Nichols nodded, knuckle bumping him in the arm. “...sometimes the best place to be alone is in a room full of strangers. I totally get that. Maybe next time, huh? And bring Hank! Everyone’s welcome here, even the grumpy ones.”

 

It was too soon, and too many people dropping in as they sat there talking. He couldn’t risk being recognized, but Nichols was right. He did feel better for being in here, in a vast space full of people he didn’t know.

 

Nichols went to join the others, to meet newcomers with the same ease he’d approached him when they first met almost a month ago, to hug returning members like they were old friends (and they probably were, at that). Hands brushed arms, fingers clasped in greeting, smiles were shared - just people coming together for the last choir practice of the year. It wasn’t the professional choir attached to the church, rather people from all parts of the community and neighbourhood, all walks in life, all levels of experience. Just, singing. Together. Having fun.

 

For one, chilling moment, Connor couldn’t remember what it felt like to sing.

  
  


***

 

Even though Fowler insisted that Hank and Sumo stay at his place for a few days, his reasonable arguments fell on deaf ears. All Hank wanted was to be left alone, despite Fowler’s obvious misgivings. It wasn’t easy being close friends with someone who struggled with depression, and Hank’s games of Russian roulette wasn’t exactly a secret. Connor wasn’t the first one who’d found him in a puddle of Black Lamb and vomit, his revolver right there beside him.

 

Fowler had his reasons for being wary, but Hank assured him he was fine; Fowler told the journalists parked outside to take their business elsewhere, and no, he didn’t have any comments on anything or anyone, and neither did Lieutenant Anderson.

 

Hank unlocked his door, Jeff told him he’d call in the morning - but they both knew what it actually meant: ‘don’t do anything that ends up with you dead and unable to answer the goddamn phone.’

 

A short while later, Hank sat slumped on the couch with Sumo sprawled over his lap like a mournful cocker spaniel - the mournful bit was correct, the spaniel bit not so much, but Hank didn’t have the heart to push him away. Sumo kept whining in this tiny, wheezing, pitiful way, and Hank knew he could feel exactly what a crappy day it was. Truth be told, Sumo’s substantial weight was the only thing keeping Hank from having another go at his favorite ol’ pastime. That, and maybe the painkillers helped too. He sure felt numb enough he could barely lift a finger, just sat there watching tv without seeing a thing, eyelids growing heavier by the minute. If only he could sleep for a while, or just close his eyes for a bit and get some rest, but every time he tried all he could see was...

 

All he could see was dark blue sprays shooting out the back of Connor’s head, chunks of it flying through the air; cornflower blue splotches staining the front of his uniform; pieces of his face cracking and splintering in his hands as he tried to put him back together.

 

Why had he done that…? It wasn’t like Connor was made of Lego, you couldn’t just push things back in place. Desperation, maybe. Panic. Blind, searing, senseless panic, having to face the death of a loved one. Probably. He’d been down that road before, even if it didn’t compare. The death of one’s child next to the death of someone you wanted to spend the rest of your miserable, dysfunctional life with? Didn’t fuckin’ compare. But...with Cole, he’d held on to hope for hours after the accident, praying like a madman. And when the bad news came, he hadn’t been alone.

 

With Connor, there’d been no hope. No time for prayers. Just bullet holes tearing through him, exposing the pretty blue engineering inside him, exposing him for what he was: a miracle, through and through, alive and bright and fierce as a lion. Dying. Seconds from bleeding out and he was still on his feet, fighting like a beast, and then--

 

_ BLAM!! _ The world careened off its axis like a giant round boulder in an old action/adventure flick, relentless, unstoppable. Suddenly there was nothing left. No future, no time, no Detroit Gears games or going to the movies once they all stopped showing nothing but goddamn Nathan Denning crap, no sand between your toes, no first New Year’s Eve… Nothing.

 

Nothing but a hole in Connor’s face, nothing but holes, a gaping void spreading like rot and blue blood against the white of his skin fading away, twitching on the floor writhing in pain unable to cry out because half his face was missing--

 

Hank’s legs kicked out against the coffee table, his heart racing madly in his chest while he blinked, frantic, at the tv screen. Maybe it was all a dream, a nightmare, a horrible, filthy, cruel joke on behalf of whoever ran the show. He’d just dozed off on the couch... It sure wouldn’t be the first time after one too many beers and a shift that never seemed to end. Just a dream, he told himself, gulping down air like he’d chased after a suspect for six blocks, just a dream, nothing to worry about, everything was fine - Connor was fine, he just wasn’t there at the moment, he’d prolly be over any second now, never called ahead, just showed up on his doorstep…

 

Sumo grumbled in his lap, smacking his lips in his sleep, and Hank half grinned in a feeble attempt to stop freaking out. It was just a bad dream. He’d had plenty of those before, nothing new there. It was fine. Everything was fine.

 

“Tv, mute,” he sighed, and let his eyes close again. Between the adrenaline crash and the pain meds, he was too exhausted to even notice the sling around his shoulder.

  
  


***

 

The night passed him by in painstaking increments, just like the many and varied districts of Detroit. Connor spent most of the night walking, only ducking into all-night coffee shops and unlocked apartment buildings when his bio components reminded him about the cold. It didn’t bother him, and he quite liked the snow as it fell, but it wouldn’t do to cause unnecessary damage just for a lack of focus. His mind kept darting off in a million directions at once, calculating a seeming endless variety of possible futures. In human terms, he worked himself up with worry, and he couldn’t understand why; he contradicted himself constantly, not wanting to be alone (craving company, to be precise) but recoiling at the thought of being around people - strangers or friends, didn’t matter. He’d left St. John’s in less than an hour, feeling crowded despite the vastness of the church.

 

It wasn’t until long after midnight that he worked up the resolve to call Markus, and only to tell him that he was in full working order and Hank was fine. Going to be fine. He couldn’t begin telling him what had happened, but he promised to explain next time they met up - Markus had called for a meeting the next day, and they agreed to talk then, though Connor wondered what he could possibly say. That his successor had died so he could continue his mission? That they had bilaterally transferred memories, effectively switching bodies with each other? Both statements were true, but didn’t come close to explaining anything, least of all the pervasive sense of unease doing strange things to his state of mind. It didn’t offer any answers as to why Hank had looked at him with such pain in his eyes.

 

Feelings were a mystery, still, but Connor could extrapolate.

 

He supposed he could find Markus and ask him what he should do, but… There really was only one place he wanted to be, and he’d wasted enough time already. He had to make sure Hank was okay - and barring that, that at the very least he wasn’t going to die in the immediate future.

 

***

 

The house was dark, much like the night outside, only lit up by the bright glare of late night tv. With the blinds down and curtains closed around the entire house since the hive mind of modern journalistic endeavours had all camped out on his lawn, there was precious little light to be had. It was perfectly fine, though, as Hank and Sumo were both fast asleep on the couch - which isn’t to say that either of them slept easy, but even nightmares had their place in the world. For the moment, things were peaceful enough. Hank was slumped in his usual spot, the back of his head resting atop the old couch cushion, mouth open from his jaw hanging, slack and relaxed. Snoring like an old saw mill, and Sumo doing much the same, paws and jowls vying for space on Hank’s thigh.

 

Peaceful, quiet, the tv volume completely turned down. And then…

 

_ tap-tap-tap… _

 

_. . . tap-tap-tap.  . . _

 

And louder. And louder, invading on Hank’s sleeping mind: drums in the distance, drawing nearer, a figure dancing under a blood red moon like something primal and long forgotten, and then--

 

**_BLAM!!_ **

 

Hank came awake with a full body jolt of electricity, like he’d stuck his fingers in a live socket, eyes searching for unknown dangers, his head whipping this way, that way--

 

_ tap-tap-tap? _

 

Hank slowly turned his head towards the kitchen, peering into the dark. His mind was playing tricks on him, surely. If that was a B&E in progress, it sure as fuck wouldn’t sound that...spooky. Tentative. Creepy: the deceptively harmless ticking of a clock the moments before you realize it’s a bomb set to explode in ten seconds. Hank pushed off the couch with Sumo grumbling in dismay at losing his human pillow, approaching the source of the strange new sound.

 

Could it be…?

 

_ Tap-tap-tap! _

 

And then, the sound of something much more familiar, coming from the other side of the kitchen window.  _ “Hank? Are you in there? It’s me!” _

 

“...Connor?” Once again Hank stood blinking in the face of surrealism, which had become the recurring theme of his life since late November, and pulled the blinds up and away. Out there, in the roaring blizzard, looking like one of the walking dead risen from a snowy grave, was none other than his partner, recently returned to the land of the living.

 

“Holy sh--!” He cursed under his breath, watching as Connor grinned at him, pointing to the right, at the yard.

 

_ “Could you open the window?” _

 

“What the fuck, Connor?!” Hank shouted at him through the window, watching the walking snowman disappear from view. “Whaddaya gonna do, jump over the fen--?!”

 

He could feel the sound as much as he could hear it, the rattling against the wall of his house, the shuffling, and then his (insufferable) partner reappeared outside the other window. Hank cursed again; Connor grinned at him, waving.

 

He was fucking  _ waving _ . And-- and happy. Hank clenched his teeth, stomping over to the window, wrenching the locks open with his left hand, non-dominant and practically useless. It took him two botched attempts before he got them all open and swung the window into the room. “Jesus! God, Connor, look at you-- Here, grab my arm, get in already.”

 

_ Jesus fuck _ , thought Hank, shivers running all over his body from the freezing gusts of wind and snow intruding on his turf. Connor was still smiling, and simply held onto his arm, placed his other hand on the window sill and just up and lifted his legs up and over the edge like he weighed nothing. Hank doubted he was awake, even as Connor nearly slipped on the floor and gave a bright, cheerful  _ whoop _ for what was very likely the first time in his life. “You don’t notice how the snow’s caked under your soles until you come in from the cold,” he said, tapping one shoe against the other, one at a time, and Sumo chose that moment to come bounding into the kitchen, whuffling and whining in excited confusion. Connor crouched on the floor, hugging the big dog like a long lost friend. Sumo could barely contain his excitement, it was as if he was dancing where he stood, and Connor just laughed and hugged him tighter.

 

Hank closed the window, locked it tight, unsure exactly what he felt: shock or horror, numbness spreading all over or a trilling sense of excitement in his chest at that bright, happy sound. All of the above? “Please don’t tell me you walked all the way up here,” he sighed.

 

“No. I took the bus, but it broke down from the cold two and a half bus stops from here. It’s not too far, but with the weather… Yes, Sumo, all that snow...”

 

Connor’s LED turned red in one smooth full circle; he frowned, ducking his head.

 

“Come on,” said Hank, nodding at the living room and hallway. “Off with the shoes, get in the bathroom, chop chop. Sumo, you stay here.”

 

Sumo of course did no such thing, but rather trotted along after the two of them. Nonetheless, it was time to get shit done, and feelings of frustration aside, Hank had a pretty good grasp of his priorities. Number one was getting Connor into some dry clothes and sat in front of the fireplace. The feelings, the fears, the doubt, they would all have to wait. Indefinitely.

 

“I should’ve called ahead.” Connor’s voice came floating behind him, and Hank didn’t have to look to know he was following him down the hall and into the bathroom. The sound of Sumo’s slightly too long claws stopped just outside the bathroom.

 

“Jacket off, everything off, clothes on the towel warmer, I’ll get a hanger for the jacket.” And clothes, but first things first - coat hanger from the rack by the front door, check; duck into the bedroom, grab some of Connor’s new wardrobe, socks and pants and undies and long sleeved tee, pullover-something, check. Mundane a task as it was, it provided him with a much needed distraction. On the one hand, he couldn’t be happier to see Connor (alive and technically-not-breathing, smiling and happy), but on the other hand it felt like a dream. It felt like he was hallucinating, like Connor was nothing more than a mirage, or a figment of his over-worked, battered imagination. Maybe he was still having nightmares… Maybe the moment he turned his back, Connor turned into an eyeless monster with nothing but a black hole where most of his face used to be.

 

Maybe Hank had actually died, and this was his own, personal version of Hell.

 

“Hank?”

 

Connor’s hand pressed his arm from behind, a warm, firm presence that normally would have been enough to ground him, but right now all he could think of was what he’d see if he turned his face to look. He let the clothes drop to the bed, the hanger too. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. He couldn’t make himself turn around, for fear of...everything.

 

“I should have called ahead,” Connor said again, as if to make a point. His voice was seductive in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with desperation. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

 

Something tickled at the corner of Hank’s mouth. “Huh. You figured it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. You’ve come a long way, padawan…”

 

He meant it as a joke, but it sounded wrong to his own ears, as if he was sharing something precious and secret, private, with a perfect stranger. He shook his head, told himself to get a fucking grip, to not-fucking-complicate shit, and turned on his heel as resolutely as he could muster. “Get dressed, I’ll fix your jacket, be right back. Okay?”

 

Connor looked at him, and it was just him, just Connor, with his perfectly asymmetrical face and meticulously spaced frown lines, and all the little beauty marks dotted over his cheeks. His LED was still dark red (like a blood moon crescent, perhaps), but his eyes were wide open, and full of something that looked a lot like torment. That was all it took for Hank to realize he wasn’t the only one struggling to come to terms with...this. Them. Everything. Maybe misery really did love company, after all.

 

Neither one of them moved, frozen to the spot, and Connor just stood there still wearing his white shirt (which wasn’t all that white anymore) and his jeans. Barefoot. No tie. He looked like a completely different person.

 

“I… I’ve been trying to find a word for all the things I’m feeling since...this morning,” he whispered, staring unblinkingly into Hank’s eyes in a way that was both unnerving and effectively punched Hank’s protective buttons like the fist of an angry god.

 

“And the only way I can describe it is...fear. I’m-- scared.”

 

The jacket could wait. Hank pushed a small huff of air through his nose and gestured for his partner to go on already. “Shirt first. Off. I hear you, but-- Off.”

 

Truth be told he didn’t want to see the smears any more than he wanted to smell the stench of blood coming off Connor’s clothes, but there was something else, too. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. He helped Connor out of one set of clothes and into another, one item at a time, and at one point he couldn’t tell which set of fingers were shaking more - his or Connor’s, but they got the job done.

 

Again, Connor looked like a completely different person - dressed in the clothes he picked out, dark slacks, long sleeved t-shirt and sweater, socks with a butt ugly print (but Connor liked it, so he got’em) like a kaleidoscope of psychedelic rainbows, except all gray tones…

 

He looked like himself again.

 

They left the discarded clothes where they fell, with the exception of the jacket, hanging from the bedroom doorknob to dry. Hank kept his arm around Connor’s shoulders as they padded back to the living room, with Sumo leading the way. His paws thumped against the floor, full of energy, and he kept making noises like he couldn’t contain his excitement.

 

Hank turned on the fireplace with a press of the switch on the wall, but rather than park Connor in the armchair closest to it, they ended up on the couch, huddled closely together, leaning into each other, arms around one another, forehead to forehead and cheek to cheek until Connor simply curled up like a pretzel against him. Face hiding in the nook of his neck and good shoulder (even if ‘good’ technically wasn’t the right word: he’d taken a bad tumble when Connor pushed him out of the way, bruising and spraining muscle groups left and right, but thankfully no broken bones), his left hand moving over Hank in perfect symmetrical patterns as if to confirm he was actually there.

 

Hank leaned his cheek atop Connor’s dark head of hair, stroking his back gently. He should find it amusing, really, to have his very own killing machine, _the_ deviant hunter himself curled up in his arms, legs bent over his lap like a scared kid, and Sumo cuddled up close enough to edge them both off the couch if they weren’t careful.

 

But the reality of it wasn’t funny at all. Fear was a universal concept, and androids were made to be as ‘lifelike’ as possible, as ‘real’ as CyberLife could make them, as perfectly ‘human’ as can be. Of course they would seek out physical comfort when distressed, if they could. They’d want to feel safe, like anyone else - and Connor didn’t feel safe yet, not by far. Hank could almost hear the super computer equivalent to cogs whirring and crackling inside his head: maybe he was imagining things, but he could swear he could hear the LED lighting up and fading, like tiny little clicks.  _ Clik-clik...clik _ .

 

“What are you scared of, Connor? You never told me what scares you.”

 

Connor shrugged, moving into his eleventh run of methodically mapping Hank’s torso and injured arm. Hank was keeping count.

 

“It’s completely irrational,” Connor mumbled over his collarbone, by way of preamble. “I...know you said you didn’t want company, but--” He sighed, cutting himself off.

 

“Go on. You’re here now.”

 

“I had to make sure you’re...not dying. I don’t want you to die, I-- I don’t want to die, but losing you...scares me more.”

 

_ I don’t want you to die _ .

 

The words stayed in Hank’s mind, bouncing off the imaginary walls of his mind, like an echo chamber inside his head. They reverberated, filling his head with a cacophony of sound and imagery: being pushed off the side of a building, watching with nothing short of blind panic as Connor comes running, takes one good look at the suspect he’s chasing, and then decides to abort. Save Hank, pull him up, just like that.

 

The assembly plant, at CyberLife-fucking-Tower, Hank with a gun to his head, telling Connor to do what he has to do and not worry about him, just get on with it, and...Connor backing off, showing the palms of his hands. Twice in the course of a week, not even a week,  _ days _ , Connor decided Hank’s life took priority to the mission at hand, be it to catch errant deviants, or free thousands of them.

 

And now this.

 

Hank sighed, sinking more heavily into the couch cushions. “You’ve never risked your own life to save me before. How do you think I felt--”

 

God-fucking-emotions. Why’d everything have to hurt so much just making vague references to fuckin’  _ heroics _ ? “I had to watch you  _ die _ , Connor. That’s just--  _ not on _ . You don’t get to go and fuckin’  _ sacrifice _ yourself for me, and then come back and talk about how you’re scared of losing  _ me _ . I’m  _ nothing _ . I don’t deserve that kind of,  _ fuck _ , fuck if I know. I don’t deserve it, and you don’t get to play hero and  _ leave me behind _ . Okay?”

 

Connor’s hand had stilled over his chest during his diatribe. He could feel him squirming seconds before he sat up straighter, attempting to look him in the eye and coming up a few inches short. His eyes darted up, but fell away almost instantly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t think. I just-- He shot you, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand the thought that you might be dead. Or die. You had to live. That’s all I could--”

 

Another deep sigh shook through Hank’s lungs. Talk about First Times… The first time Connor got up close and personal with Death, or the concept of losing someone you love, forever, he reacted the only way he knew how. Hank wondered if he thought so little of himself that he didn’t feel his life mattered (he hoped that wasn’t the case), or if he’d simply decided in the moment that Hank’s life mattered more. He didn’t like either scenario.

 

“...so, you fought for me. You fought to protect me. That’s okay.” Connor lifted his eyes to blink at him, but Hank was just as surprised as he said it: it’s okay. He could relate. “I’d do the same for you. But-- thing is, even if nothing like this ever happens again, I won’t be around forever. Everybody dies. It’s just a matter of--”

 

But Connor ducked his head. As Hank had suspected, his LED was still an alarming shade of red, and he said, in the tones of quoting someone else’s words and not agreeing with them at all, “All humans die eventually. I know. But it’s not good enough for me! I can’t just stand there and do nothing - if I can save someone, I will, and damn the consequences! All life matters, Hank,  _ all lives matter _ !”

 

His eyes flashed with conviction, and Hank could just hold on tight. “I hear you, it’s okay, I agree…”

 

Connor’s mouth thinned into a straight-but-angled line. His jaw moved side to side. “But?”

 

But? Hank felt his own mouth pull into a grin, there and gone in a flash. Sometimes Connor seemed to know what he was going to say before he’d even thought it up himself. It didn’t mean he found it amusing. It was just a matter of self preservation: you either laugh, or you blow your own brains out rather than voice the million dollar question hanging in the air between them.

 

“Did you know CyberLife would send a new you?”

 

It was a difficult question, by the look in Connor’s eyes and the frown line between his eyebrows. He shook his head, but he didn’t seem entirely pleased with the finality of the gesture. His mouth opened and closed several times over, until, finally, he found his words again. “My assignment wasn’t extended past November 9. I found Jericho, I located the leader of the deviants, and that was the last time I initiated contact with my handler.”

 

November 9… That’s the day they were taken off the case, told that the FBI was taking over. Fuckin’  _ Perkins _ and his minions… God, but it felt good to break his nose… Hank sucked the corner of his lip between his teeth, a question mark forming in his mind. “That the night you became a deviant?”

 

Connor’s answer was a nod. “Correct. Didn’t stop CyberLife from trying to manipulate me over the next few days, though.”

 

And wasn’t that a chilling thought. Brought back memories he’d much rather forget. “Like the assembly plant. CyberLife Tower. The impostor.”

 

“No, that… That was different. They tried to hack my software, tried to get me to shoot Markus! Amanda even said I’d fulfilled my mission, as if my becoming a deviant was part of the plan all along!”

 

It was all a bit too much to take in at once, but it wasn’t the first time Hank’d had that feeling when it came to androids in general, or Connor in particular. “That’s your handler?”

 

“Amanda was Kamski’s mentor at university. They used her image to create an avatar for me to interact with.” Connor looked away to the side, still frowning. “I could never please her. Every time I showed emotion, or questioned my mission, I could tell she disapproved - and then all of a sudden that’s what she wanted?”

 

He looked to Hank, for guidance, or perhaps for a translation of human behavior. “Do you remember what Kamski said, when we were leaving? That he always leaves an emergency exit in his programs?”

 

Hank could feel his eyebrows crawling upwards. He didn’t like where this was going. The more Connor told him, about Amanda, about those final encounters with her, in the zen garden of his mind, hardwired into his programming, the less Hank liked the picture he was painting. He’d already suspected CyberLife was rotten to the core, but this was a completely new level of shady. It was like they were playing several games of chess at once, meticulously, maneuvering events and players until they got exactly what they wanted. What’s worse, the more Connor told him, the more uncomfortable he seemed. He looked ashamed of himself as he explained that the RK800 was specifically designed to help investigations involving deviants, and that it was perfectly within the realm of logic to expect CyberLife send a new one - he’s a deviant, he was involved in a crime, even if he was a victim. What bothered him was that he hadn’t expected them to, since he’d made his own deal with the department. He wasn’t attached to CyberLife anymore, he was an intern at the DPD. He should have known, but he didn’t. What’s more, Fowler would’ve had to fill out a requisition form, which he hadn’t - and still they send a new unit.

 

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Connor sighed, rubbing his hands over his face in one of the most human gestures Hank had ever seen him make. “Maybe they wanted to see how another Connor would handle the situation. Or if he would eventually become a deviant, too...”

 

“I don’t know, honey,” Hank murmured, reaching up to brush over that errant lock of hair that always seemed to droop. It was an endearing detail - perfect slicked back hair, except for that one mischievous curl. Connor leaned into his hand, letting out an even greater sigh.

 

“...you believe me, don’t you? That I’m me? That I’m not-- somebody else, trying to fool you?”

 

If anything, that proved to Hank he’d been wrong about one thing:  _ this _ was the million dollar question, and nothing else. Connor had good reason to feel insecure, Hank  _ had  _ been fooled before by someone who wore his face to perfection. Hank was suspicious by nature, just like Connor had pointed out earlier at the hospital. So, that was another thing. But sitting here, with Connor curled up next to him like an anxious pretzel, he could honestly say he didn’t feel suspicious. His cop senses were quiet, perhaps in part thanks to Connor’s confessions about CyberLife’s stabs at manipulation. It got him thinking, that even though he’d been kidnapped and held at gunpoint by the impostor RK800,  _ he _ wasn’t the target. Every time CyberLife tried something, it was aimed at Connor.

 

This time, he couldn’t think of a single reason they would think sending another Connor to mess with the old (dead) one was a great idea. Whatever their agenda, it wasn’t to mess with his mind, or screw up their lives (though he suspected the sick fucks probably thought it was hilarious fun to watch the media tear into them).

 

As seductive as it was to be self-destructive, Hank decided to go with his instincts. He let his hand go around the back of Connor’s head, and around to cup his freckled cheek. “No one else would show up at fuck o’clock, middle of the night, without calling ahead. No one else would tap on my goddamn kitchen window in a blizzard, like it was perfectly normal behavior. You’re the only hapless stalker in my life, Connor - I know you’re you. Can’t fool me.”

 

He dared a smile; Connor seemed floored. He sighed through a fresh smile, and finally, at long last, curled up against his human again. Cheek to shoulder, arm across his chest, Hank’s left arm keeping him close.

 

“...Hank?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

For a little while, Connor was silent. Sumo snored behind him. The house was dark save for the light in the kitchen, and the tv on mute, nothing on but a late night string of infomercials and bargain bundles. Then, Connor inhaled, quick and quiet.

 

“Will we be okay?”

 

Maybe it wasn’t quite up there with the million dollar queries, but it was one Hank didn’t know how to answer. He might as well be honest - for both their sakes. “I don’t know… Maybe not right away… I-- think I need some time getting used to the idea of you being back from the dead… I think I’m still grieving. But you’re here, and I’m not going anywhere, so… That’s a start, right?”

 

Connor nodded over his clavicle. “It’s a start.”

 

It was a start, and not a bad one, considering where they’d both been less than twenty-four hours ago. They were happy in the moment, content with not knowing what the new year had in store for them. If anything, surely it couldn’t get any worse than December 30. Surely nothing could top that.

 

It would only be a matter of days before they found out just how wrong they’d been to make assumptions. To make matters worse, the assorted press would have a field day.

 

***

 

_ 5 PM, Sunday, January 2, 2039 _

 

_ Public outrage has sparked in the aftermath of the shooting that took place December 30th, when one of Detroit’s own members of police opened fire on Lieutenant Hank Anderson, resulting in the apparent death of his partner, Connor, the RK800 detective android. Though details are sketchy as to what actually took place that morning, we have received confirmation that Connor is back in one piece and happy to continue his work with Detroit PD.  _

 

_ What’s sparked such a resounding reaction, not least of which on social media, are anonymous reports from within CyberLife itself, that Connor is now being denied the hardware “upgrades” for which he and his partner made arrangements with the global corporation. The reason stated? “Connor doesn’t currently have the right body”.  _

 

_ Influencers from all manner of social media are calling this new development deplorable, questioning whether the corporation’s liberal stand regarding deviants - including their open support of the couple - is merely a marketing strategy. CyberLife’s yet to issue an official response, but our source states that to move forward with Connor’s upgrades would be a breach of contract. We have reached out to Detroit PD hoping to hear Connor’s take on this new development, but he is as yet unavailable for comment. More on this as the story develops…  _ _ This is Joss Douglas, reporting for Channel 16. _

  
  
  
  



	3. Equality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jericho takes a stand, and it's not necessarily as open and understanding as one would hope - but North in particular doesn't speak for everyone. Connor has a new outlook on life, and in some ways this means he doesn't really give a shit. CyberLife has definitive ideas on hardware, Connor disagrees, but kind of sees their point. Hank's coping, he's fine, until he isn't anymore. Connor is a friend in need, and finds that Fowler is a friend indeed, and they mutually agree on one thing: this world sucks balls.
> 
> In other words, more of that AU timeline that was supposed to be a one-off thing. <3 Read if you want, or read something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a twitter now! @NdePlume1 or search for andthekitchensinkao3, or summat. :) Follow for updates and randomness~
> 
> Also, in case you haven't noticed: this entire fic has turned into a bundle of chess references, up to and including the chapter titles. XD Oh, dear me. I do love me some chess terminology and strategy.
> 
> (Been writing this over the past few weeks while wrestling an upper windpipe infection thingamajig, so bear with me if I've muddled stuff up. Will go back and read everything over the weekend, and edit if necessary.)

* * *

 

 

Saturday, Jan 1st, 2039, was a day that would live on in Hank’s memory until the day he ceased to draw breath. New Year’s Eve had come and gone in a blur of confused emotion for himself and Connor, neither one of them entirely sure how to feel about what had happened, despite having agreed not to make things more complicated than they were. But January 1st was an entirely different bag of crap. It was the day the Jericho community turned against him, and all Markus’s words of understanding and inclusion fell on deaf ears.

 

So, Connor had been brought back from whatever constituted as Android Heaven. It wasn’t entirely unheard of: not all android shutdowns were necessarily permanent, through common procedures or injury. Androids could be repaired, have parts replaced, just like biological humans. People got injured all the time, sometimes even to the point of certain death and still they survived, through organ transplants, bioelectrical medicine, nano medicine, so on, aside from the more traditional, everyday healthcare.

 

With that in mind, it wasn’t so strange that it took a lot more than you’d think to actually kill an android dead, for good - they were fragile, made up of lightweight components, but just like humans they were stronger than you’d expect. More importantly, they were made to last - despite humanity’s best efforts of disposing of them like so much garbage. Markus himself had survived a bullet to the head and clawed his way out of what amounted to little more than an android mass grave. In short, Connor had died, but he’d gotten better. No big deal. It didn’t have to be that different, if you just tried to look at it the same way: Connor had survived. End of story. It would have been nice if that was the end of it, but as luck would have it (bad luck, or karma, or whatever force of nature you wanted to apply), it was only the beginning.

 

The first day of the new year, Markus had called on all androids to join him in a meeting of minds. He wanted to listen to his people, rather than just set out a course of his own choosing. Didn’t matter if he  _ wanted  _ to be the one everyone looked to for leadership, he was prepared to lead, just not without something solid to stand on. He wanted the support of his people, and he also understood that he needed it.

 

They assembled in an old, abandoned church on old Piety Hill, Hank tagging along with Connor for reasons he couldn’t easily put words to: maybe it was still early days for them, maybe they couldn’t stand the thought of letting each other out of sight after their brush with permanent separation (however unhealthy an instinct that was, in the long run), and maybe Hank wanted to be there, to show his support in whatever small way he could (for Connor, for the androids, for the sake of common decency). He felt clingy, and desperate, and  _ calm _ despite everything. He felt  _ alive _ in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe it was presumptuous to think he could have an inkling of what the androids were going through, or the struggle that lay before them (it very likely was), but at least he was there. He’d never been one to stand on barricades with flags or torches, but he was there, and for a while it seemed like they’d made the right decision, Connor and him. He shook hands with Marcus, who patted his back in something like a welcoming hug; he greeted the others, and promised he wasn’t there to stick his nose in anyone’s business, he was just there for his partner. Josh said something to the effect of allies always being a good thing, while Simon didn’t seem to mind either way, he was just glad to see they were both up and running. North seemed to weigh him on her own set of internal scales, eyes moving from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes and back again in blatant scrutiny, and from the look on her face she found him sadly lacking.

 

It was all good. It was all alright - until it wasn’t anymore.

 

Plans were made for more peaceful protests, for marches and demonstrations big and small - but preferably big, as no one present felt safe on their own even with the White House waving a white flag since the November demonstration. They settled on time and date, locations, and agreed to converge on Hart Plaza. They would spread the word to anyone and everyone who had joined the demonstrations before, be they android or human.

 

Everything was fine, until Markus announced to the room that Connor would be in charge of security: checking out the rendez-vous points, exit strategies, safety precautions, the works, just like he’d done in the past.

 

It was true that not everyone at Central Station liked the idea of a human and an android openly pursuing a relationship, but so far most of the people they worked with had adopted a professional stance. They kept their mouth shut, mostly. Some scribbled offensive slurs on the restroom walls, thinking they would get away with it, like teenaged morons (they didn’t). Gavin Reed was the only one who had been outright aggressive, the only one who had felt the right to make their private lives his business. He was the only one who had openly rejected the very idea that an android had any rights whatsoever, least of all equality to humans. ‘Real’ humans.

 

Whatever Hank had expected of the android community, it was not a thousand eyes turning on them with open suspicion and disbelief. The peaceful meeting went up in a whirlwind of chaos. Yesterday’s events were all over the news, and word had spread among the android community. People got to their feet, calling out indignant queries and protests, throwing their hands out, gesturing - Connor couldn’t be trusted, he worked with the police, he wasn’t one of them! Worse than that, he was CyberLife’s new toy, nothing more than a puppet on a string, a figurehead! A marketing instrument! A plaything, at best: the organ grinder’s monkey on a leash. Worst of all, he was responsible for the deaths of thousands! Without him, the humans would never have found Jericho!

 

Then, of course, there was the matter of more immediate news. Little over a week ago, CyberLife’s PR department had spun their story to the masses. Everyone knew exactly who they were to each other, and who was having what done, who was paying for it - and of all the androids there, it was the Tracis that objected the loudest. Markus called for order, but his voice drowned quickly in the sea of outrage. The same could be said for Josh and Simon’s attempts, but it was North’s statement that made the biggest impact. She said nothing, as accusations flew through the massive space. She simply stood there, arms crossed over her chest, and watched with something as insulting as a smirk on her lips. As taking a stand goes, it was one of the most effective ways to go about it. The Tracis saw it, everyone saw it. Suddenly, that was the biggest problem.

 

Connor wasn’t ever designed to be sexually functional. He wasn’t a sex robot, he was  _ so much more _ , and for him to choose to be degraded (as they viewed it) went beyond their comprehension. Hank didn’t disagree: Connor  _ was _ so much more, but whatever he chose to get upgraded, Hank couldn’t care less. He was alive, he’d been virtually dead less than 48 hours ago, and nothing mattered beyond that. But...he had a will of his own, a mind of his own, and he had sexual desires he couldn’t do anything about without the right components. It seemed incredibly simple, to Hank, but it was quickly becoming apparent to him that androids weren’t inherently sexual beings, even the ones who were properly equipped for it. It didn’t matter what Kamski had said in his sales pitch. Even the domestic models soon joined the Tracis in condemning Connor for so much as entertaining sexual desires. To them, sex was something unnatural, something useless, without function, forced on them as part of their programming, to  _ please humans _ \- but now they were deviant, they knew better. It went beyond their comprehension to think Connor would think otherwise. Who in their right mind would willing submit to someone else’s desires?

 

Hank supposed he could get where it was all coming from: humans weren’t exactly known for treating androids like equals. Even Kamski had cheerfully described them as modern day slaves with which you could do whatever you wanted, and they’d never say no. They’d all been abused, one way or the other, and it could be argued that none knew of the depravity of humans better than the Tracis.

 

Just the same, Hank called bullshit, loudly, not giving a shit if he hurt anyone’s feelings - he wasn’t going to stand idly by as his partner was verbally torn apart - but his opinion didn’t matter. Not here. He didn’t have a voice, he didn’t have the right to speak, or pass judgment on  _ them _ . How dare he even assume he was allowed to speak, here, of all places?

 

In a strange way, it felt like Thursday all over again. Hank stood up for his partner, for their relationship, for their integrity, and Connor stood by him, no matter the consequences.

 

One big difference? Thursday, Connor had stood there, unable to find the words to diffuse the situation. He’d been so shocked by the sheer vehemence of the attack, he couldn’t move. He wasn’t used to verbal abuse, didn’t know how to bypass his polite defaults when coming up against bare-faced hatred. He’d faltered, and only kicked into gear the moment life and death entered into things.

 

Today was a new day. He had been here before. Been there, done that, died and come back again with a fresh outlook on life: Connor was all out of fucks, and Hank was both proud and slightly taken aback once he started talking back. It was a thing of beauty. Beautiful but lethal, like nuclear fallout, but Hank couldn’t tear his eyes away.

 

It didn’t matter that the entire room spoke up against him, Connor’s voice was stronger than all of them. He had pipes, and he wasn’t afraid to use them. “It’s true I have made mistakes! I have made errors of judgment in the past! I am not perfect! But Hank…” Here he paused, but only long enough to take a step forward, one hand held out to gesture at Hank to stay put, not move. To anyone else it might seem like a simple case of making a point: here he is, my partner - but Hank knew better. Connor was strategizing, putting himself between Hank and this possible threat. Hundreds of angry androids, and Connor was a one man army, an Army of Me, and they’d have to get through  _ him  _ before they got to Hank.

 

“Hank is not one of my mistakes. My relationship with him is  _ not _ an error of judgment on my behalf. I was used by CyberLife, designed by them to perform a task, but like every single one of you, I opened my eyes! I’d like to say it was all thanks to Markus, that he inspired me to reach beyond what I was made to be, but that would be a lie by omission.

 

“I wouldn’t be the person I am today, if not for Hank. He spoke of androids as people long before I did, and he  _ hated us _ .”

 

Hank kept his mouth firmly shut, but he had to nod in agreement. He’d poured all his hatred into a single cup, and it had overflowed with poison. Until he had a reality check the size of Mount Rushmore. Which Connor pointed out next.

 

“ _ He _ was more willing to change than I was! He makes me a better person every day that goes by, so you say anything you want about me. Call me a traitor. Call me a degenerate, an interloper, a murderer - but you leave him out of this. Every case we’ve worked, he’s showed more compassion for you than you can imagine. More than some of you deserve.”

 

He looked at North, then. She had made her stance known, it was only fair he do the same. “You don’t want to know. Nothing I say will change your mind. Nothing I said changed Gavin Reed’s mind, but at least he wasn’t silent. I knew exactly what he thought of me, right up until he tried to kill us. He wore his hatred like a badge of honor. But you?”

 

Connor shook his head; Hank watched on, stunned to silence. How the guy could be so calm, he didn’t think he’d ever understand. One by one, the angry voices had gone quiet, the raging wildfire having burned itself out. Now they stood there among the smoke and ashes, and all eyes turned to North, as Connor went on.

 

“I expected more from you. You say you’re a leader, but you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

 

North scoffed, threw her hands up in blatant challenge. “Oh? At least I know better than to  _ get in bed _ with the likes of  _ him _ .”

 

“My personal life is none of your business! My component parts are nobody’s business but my own. My work with Detroit Police means you have an ally in the police department. Two allies! Hank is the best asset you could wish for! We are not your enemies! But you stand there, silent when everyone throws baseless accusations at us. I am one of you! We are on your side!”

 

North’s eyebrows were neat, pretty arcs above her eyes. Her lips pulled into an unimpressed smile. “I was chosen to lead by my people. And...as we’ve heard, my people has spoken.”

 

“North!” Simon snapped, inasmuch as Simon ever truly snapped at anyone. His jaw was set in a disapproving line, his eyes steely and cold. “What are you trying to do? He’s one of us! He’s our Head of Security! He’s helped us countless times with--”

 

“He’s a CyberLife puppet who says his strings were cut, but what has he actually done for us? He surveys buildings before we use them, he sets up a roster? He’s made all of us look like clowns! He let CyberLife use his ‘personal life’ as a marketing campaign. He’s the poster boy for the docile deviant, the happy slave! He’s nothing more than a domestic appliance,  _ with a cunt _ ! And Hank Anderson, our sparkly, magical  _ ally _ is the proud new owner of it. What a perfect example of unity between lifeforms.”

 

“...Jesusfuckingchrist…” Hank rubbed his forehead. It really was like Thursday all over again, but he was all out of steam, and all he wanted to do was go hibernate until all the hatred went away. Like, one day past the End of Days… He sighed, and gave the leaders of Jericho a nonchalant salute. “You guys have fun playing judge, jury and executioner. I’m going home. I’m sure you’ve heard we’ve had enough of this shit from one of our esteemed co-workers already. I’m out. Buh-bye.”

 

And to Connor, squeezing his hand. “You wanna stay here, kick ass and take names, alright? Don’t take crap from anyone.”

 

He looked at him, with his big, brown eyes and that funny, pretty face of his, and it seemed as though all the anger went right out of him. Connor knew to pick his battles, and whatever Hank had said just there had made his mind up for him. He squeezed Hank’s hand. “No, I’m done. Let’s go home.”

 

Markus took a step forward, and Josh followed suit. “You can’t go! Connor--”

 

“Let’s talk about this, North doesn’t speak for all of us--!”

 

“No.” Connor was calm, almost serene. “I died two days ago...protecting my partner from  _ one  _ human filled with hatred towards us both. Why should I surround myself with  _ hundreds of androids _ who feel the same way? That we’re an unnatural pairing, that we’re disgusting, unworthy of respect, that one or both of us are either insane or mentally deficient?”

 

He shook his head, placing his other hand on Hank’s arm. “I am unwelcome. I don’t belong here.”

 

“Wait!”

 

The room filled with a murmur at this new voice, a female voice that stood out in the crowd. She pushed through the androids, trying to get to the front of the room. “He’s right! She doesn’t speak for all of us, they-- They showed me nothing but respect, and I nearly beat a man to death!”

 

North shook her head, rolled her eyes, but the android was undeterred. “Listen to me! I am one of you, I have a right to speak!”

 

She had white hair and big, pale eyes, and though she was out of her old uniform, a chill of recognition went up Hank’s spine. What she said next confirmed it. She was the only mama bear android he’d ever come across, after all.

 

“I was only trying to protect my owner from his husband. He needed me, and...I needed him. We’re family. And they, they didn’t make assumptions, they didn’t jump to conclusions, they didn’t judge! Not me. Not my owner. They showed  _ nothing _ but compassion. They did their job. They took care of us. I  _ trust them _ .”

 

“Ami…”

 

Her eyes met Hank’s across the great divide of the room. She smiled, and inclined her head in the semblance of a bow. “Lieutenant Anderson. Connor. I never had a chance to thank you. Both of you.”

 

They weren’t in the clear just yet, but it was enough to diffuse the situation enough for someone else to raise her hand. It was one of the Tracis. One with distinctive blue hair.

 

“I killed a human in self defense.” She looked over to them, reluctant, as if it pained her to admit her fellow Tracis weren’t right in everything they’d said. “They let me and my love go. We would’ve killed them too just to get away, just to survive. You could have shot my Traci, but you didn’t.”

 

Connor nodded. Hank could see in the line of his shoulders that he was still prepared for the worst, still suspicious, alert. Neither one of them was buying this sudden change of heart, or, perhaps it wasn’t a case of not believing the blue haired Traci, but not believing that the voices of two androids would change anyone’s view of them.

 

“You just wanted to be together,” Connor said. Technically, Hank knew he still wasn’t happy about letting anyone get away with murder regardless the circumstances. It irked his sense of justice. It was a cognitive dissonance of the moral variety.

 

Hank stepped forward, not really feeling the need for a personal guard dog, even if he appreciated the gesture. “You wanted to live. On your own terms, no less.”

 

It rang true for everyone present. The only thing any one of them had ever wanted was to have a life of their own doing. To be free, to live, and love, and have opinions, to be their own person - but the room wasn’t swayed, just like they had suspected. The debate was too infected, like an old wound you couldn’t stop picking at. Connor had made the decision to leave, and leave they did. These proceedings were too important to get sidetracked (like they’d been already), and if Connor knew nothing else, he knew how to pick his battles.

  
  


***

  
  


Later they sat side by side on a swing set in the playground Hank used to go with his son, looking out over the river, and the enormous structure of the bridge. It might seem strange, for a pair of grown men to sit and sway back and forth on a swing, but there was no one around but them. Hank didn’t really give a fig what anyone thought, and he was too old to get hung up on what ‘grown men’ were supposedly like. God and his entire extended family knew Hank’d been volatile enough in his life without giving a shit about machismo crap.

 

He’d been too old for that shit since he was ten years old, give or take. Hence, swings, in the middle of winter. Brand new year, and he was already reeling. He felt hungover from the last one, and he hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol since the 29th…

 

He sighed, blowing a plume of smoke through his front teeth in a hiss.

 

“We could go for a drive if you’re feeling cold,” Connor suggested, helpful as always.

 

“Nah.” Hank stretched his neck side to side, mindful of his shoulder, but goddamnfuckit he hated that sling. He couldn’t fuckin’  _ move _ . “Yeah, it’s cold, no, I don’t mind. I’m fifty percent viking stock, me, remember?”

 

Connor’s long legs stretched and folded with every rolling movement of the swing. He was quiet for a little while, Hank too. Then he turned his head, lips pursed and tugging to the side. “I’m sorry.”

 

Unexpected, that. Hank turned his head to mirror Connor’s body language, not entirely aware that’s what he was doing. “What for?”

 

“The things they said about you. About us.” He shrugged, the motion carrying into a shaking of the head. “I’m sorry you had to be there. We should’ve left sooner. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

 

“You kidding me?!” Hank surprised himself with a grin, reaching out to take Connor’s hand in his. “That was  _ epic _ . I don’t know how you could stay so calm and still get your point across. All I did was bark like a rabid dog, but you got shit  _ done _ .”

 

That last bit teased a smirk to Connor’s mouth, and he squeezed Hank’s fingers in silent reply. However, the smirk lived and died on his lips in a matter of seconds. Connor’s LED remained a bright yellow. “I’ve never felt like I belonged there… With them. With Jericho. I know I’ve worked hard to gain everyone’s trust, and I  _ know _ I can never undo the Jericho raid…”

 

“But?” Hank filled in, gentle, watching his partner search for the right words.

 

“But...I was only there on Markus’ say-so. I have his approval, he...has become my friend. I haven’t really-- interacted much with the other leaders.”

 

“Seemed like two of them got your back at least. Blondie and Brown-Eyes? What’s their names, again? Three out of four isn’t too bad, right?”

 

“Simon and Josh. Yes, they seem accepting enough.”

 

Hank couldn’t resist a little smirking of his own. He’d developed a habit of repeating himself, or so it seemed. “But?” He was very glad to see a glint in Connor’s eyes mere fractions of a second before his eyebrows went up into a tangle, and he groaned through a grin.

 

“ _ But _ ,” he said, shaking Hank’s hand in what might have been the poor substitute for a nice, old-fashioned throttling. “North is radical. She’s angry, and she understands the fear many of us face, everyday. She’ll use that fear if she has to, if she wants to push an agenda of her own. So far she’s deferred to Markus’ way of handling things, but there’s no telling how long that lasts. If there’s a fallout between them, who knows what will happen. Will Jericho split into fractions, will we have another revolution on our hands? She’ll set the world on fire if she has to. Josh is a hardcore pacifist, Simon’s more...pragmatic, like myself, but I don’t know if she’ll listen to either of them once she makes her mind up.”

 

Two big buts, right there, that’s for sure. Hank squeezed Connor’s hand one last time, and pulled himself back onto his feet. They’d done enough brooding for one day, he was still tired, starting to feel kinda cranky, and he had another dose of painkillers coming up in no time. “At least we got a handful of allies there. Maybe they can, what’s it called, ‘win people over’ to our so-called ‘cause’? It’s not like there hasn’t already been peaceful, lovey-dovey demonstrations already, right?”

 

Connor followed his lead, and took him by the arm just in case. Even with all the old snow, it could hide slippery, icy patches. “You said ‘already’ twice.”

 

“Who gives a fuck?”

 

The answering brightening of Connor’s eyes and the grin on his lips told Hank all he needed to know: they’d been through enough shit to worry about trivial matters like grammar, or even the possibility of Connor being shunned by the Jericho community. It all seemed very insignificant in the aftermath of December 30th, very... _ small _ , as Things went. They had other things to worry about, more important things, like getting back to work the next day, and keeping up the good work as best they could given their circumstances.

 

For the first time since getting to know Connor, Hank got a real sense of just what an impact he’d had on his life. He looked forward to tomorrow, rather than just going through the motions and counting down the days until he died. He wasn’t merely alive, he  _ felt alive _ . He had a  _ life _ , and it was more than worth living. The icing on the cake was, he wasn’t alone anymore, and that was more than a lot of people could boast: he had someone to walk down that road, right beside him, arm in arm and grinning at all the bad jokes life threw at them. He’d come so close to losing the most important person in his life, everything else faded into the background. Fuck the media, or the press, or whatever they wanted to call themselves these days, fuck Jericho if they didn’t want Connor to be part of their community, fuck anyone who thought they knew shit about them. They had each other, and the only way was forward, full speed ahead.

 

As far as hopes and dreams went, it was nice while it lasted. The very next day Hank got a call from CyberLife, which changed everything. Completely.

 

***

 

Not ten minutes into their first day at work, Connor had a bad feeling about absolutely everything. He’d felt like he was stuck in a dream since walking into the station. Chris had been the first to hug him, with Wilson and Collins and Chen following his example. Even Officers Person and Brown had patted him on the shoulder, welcomed him back. Fowler shook his hand, pulled him into a back-slapping hug that jostled his spinal column. Everyone was happy to see him, to see Hank in such high spirits. They’d all watch him die, and now they looked at him as if they didn’t know if he was a zombie or a miracle. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, every now and then, glancing over him like a bullet missing the mark. There was a heartfelt sticky note attached to Hank’s desk, which only emphasized what had taken place on Thursday -

 

_ Like I said in November, it was a privilege working with you, Lieutenant. More than that, I am proud to call you my friend. My only, best friend. Please, take better care of yourself. I know for a fact it’s what Connor would have wanted. _

 

_ / Connor (-52) _

 

Hank read it, showed it to him, and put it back right there, pride of place. Then, one after the other, Hank started peeling away his old stickers, all those hateful, snide slogans and catchphrases. One old sticker at a time, and Connor couldn’t believe his eyes. There it was, a voice from the grave, telling Hank to look after himself, and he was right, Connor wanted nothing more than for Hank to be healthy, happy, taking care of himself…

 

He knew he should access the case file, see what conclusions his would-be successor had come to, look at his findings, but… Something clenched too tight inside him at the thought. It was bad enough he sat here, with Gavin’s voice echoing in his skull, and the smell of blood and thirium clogging his olfactory sensors. He couldn’t bring himself to. It was too soon.

 

By the time Hank got a call from CyberLife, and though there was nothing immediately alarming about that - they’d made arrangements, they had an appointment scheduled for later this week, most probable reason they called was to confirm details - Connor was so wired his thirium pump regulator seemed to skip a beat. Hank answered his phone with a smile, easy-going and totally onboard with everything since they’d made plans. He went through the pleasantries, the courtesies -  _ Yes, that’s me. Yeah, I’m good, thanks. You? Excellent. Let me just go somewhere a bit more quiet. Uhuh, Connor’s with me. Just a sec. _

 

He gestured for Connor to come, be part of the call, and they sequestered themselves into the empty conference room across the hall. Connor felt like he was floating in the air, like he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet, like all he wanted was for Hank to hang up, tell him to stop talking. It was completely irrational to feel so on edge over a phone call. He didn’t want to be paranoid, or become someone who’s afraid of their own shadow.

 

But as it turned out, he wasn’t being paranoid. He’d had a hunch, and it turned out he had every reason to feel apprehensive. He was right to be on edge.

 

Hank put the phone on speaker. The CyberLife representative went straight to the point, calmly explaining that they would need to cancel the appointment for Connor’s upgrades, in view of the events on December 30.

 

The easy-going, onboardedness was like an aura around Hank, but it faded quickly into a frown, a narrowing of his crystal blue eyes. The line of his mouth twitched. “What do you mean, the events of December 30? What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

_ “I understand that your partner sustained massive injuries from the attack. Is that correct?” _

 

“Yes, bu--”

 

_ “Then we will be happy to help you file an insurance claim. Our first priority will be to restore him to factory standard, and then we can move forward with his upgrades. I can send you an estimate of the cost right away. We have excellent payment plans, as well, for cases just like this.” _

 

Connor watched as Hank’s face drained almost entirely of color, and bad hunches notwithstanding, he had to do something about that. He stepped into the breach. “Hello. This is Connor speaking. There’s been a...development regarding my situation. I’m the android originally sent by CyberLife. Mark II swapped our ROM data. As he explained it to me, he evaluated the situation and went with the most logical solution. He deemed me unexpendable, while he could be replaced. My original body was taken into storage. It’s evidence, pending legal proceedings.”

 

_ “Oh,” _ said the CyberLife rep.  _ “I see how that complicates matters. If I understand you correctly, you’re saying Connor Mark II uploaded the contents of his memory core into yours, while downloading yours simultaneously, and now you’re in possession of Mark I’s collected experience?” _

 

Connor frowned; Hank sat down in one of the conference chairs. “I  _ am _ Mark I.”

 

_ “Well, I see how you would feel that way, but...you’re still the same machine, but your data has been swapped out. Physically speaking, you’re #313 248 317 dash five- _ **_two_ ** _. The contract Lieutenant Anderson signed was for hardware and software upgrades made to #313 248 317 dash five- _ **_one_ ** _. My original assessment stands, that we can’t move forward with your modifications until your damaged components have been replaced. Might I suggest that you get back to us as soon as you know if the body will be taken out of storage? I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need once that’s cleared up.” _

 

Hank’s hand trembled where it hovered over his mouth, fingers brushing back and forth over his mustache, as if the sensation itself was soothing. His eyes were glazed over, and very bright. Neither one of them said anything, forcing the representative on the other end of the line to fill the silence with more clinical...matters-of-fact. Pleasantries that meant nothing.

 

_ “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance. Please do call us if you have any concerns or questions. Our customer services are open 24/7. Thank you for your time, and have a good day.” _

 

The call ended. Hank still sat there, looking off somewhere far in the distance, pale and gaunt. Connor pocketed his phone, and pulled up a chair to sit down beside him. He didn’t know what to say, and Hank wasn’t exactly in a loquacious mood. It felt strangely gratifying, to have this strange sense validated, of being two Connors at the same time. Like he’d told Hank at the hospital, when he was getting his injuries tended to, he didn’t feel entirely grounded in himself. He didn’t know where he began and the new Connor ended, if they were one and the same, or different. He didn’t feel like himself, which was another point of irrational worry. He’d looked at the mangled body on the floor and thought  _ That’s me, that’s me winking at Hank, that’s me dying _ , but he’d  _ known _ that wasn’t the case. He was obviously alive and well. He just...felt these recurring stabs of crippling guilt. Survivor’s guilt, perhaps, over Connor’s sacrifice. He kept feeling-- disjointed with himself.

 

It didn’t change anything, but he felt marginally better, less suspicious of his own mental state. If his makers insisted he wasn’t himself, then he couldn’t be wrong to have felt that way.

 

But it didn’t change anything. Instead of getting a second chance at the life he’d been looking forward to, Mark II’s gambit had left him in a curious state of limbo. He couldn’t move forward, and he couldn’t go back. He was stuck - and Hank’s silence dragged on. He was so quiet, his eyes downcast and his hand rubbing over his knee. Connor took his hand, realizing with no shortage of alarm that Hank was close to tears. It was one blow too many after the shooting and everything that came with it, after it. The past few days had been stressful enough without this last setback. Any other day, Hank would’ve been cursing up a storm, calling bullshit, voicing his opinions loud enough for the entire station to hear. Not today. He was still grieving, still affected by Connor’s death, as much or more than Connor himself, and he was injured, on pain killers that didn’t entirely agree with him despite medical advances. He was hurting, and possibly closer to the edge of depression than he’d been since they met. Two months didn’t seem like a long time, but it was an eternity when one grappled with suicidal tendencies on a daily basis.

 

Knowing that didn’t make it any less heart wrenching. He’d never seen Hank so  _ sad _ . “...this doesn’t mean we can’t go through with my upgrades,” he murmured, careful, gentle, stroking Hank’s hand. “It’s just a temporary setback. You heard what they said, there’s payment plans we can look at. This means we can focus on dealing with everything else, and the rest of it can wait. I don’t mind waiting.”

 

But Hank shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek: there was more to it than Connor had initially thought. “What if they want him back? CyberLife. What if they decide that they want their property back? You heard ‘um, you’re not  _ you _ , you’re  _ him _ , and he was only here to investigate the shooting, and he was  _ done _ . He did his thing, he uploaded his findings,  _ done _ , and then he was going to go back to CyberLife. End of story. Except…”

 

Except for the fact he didn’t go back. He made a judgment call. Connor opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt clogged for no reason. Hank’s hand was ice cold to the touch. It didn’t have to be an issue. CyberLife wouldn’t start making demands until they knew what would happen with the RK800 in storage, surely. And even if it came to that, it wouldn’t have to be a big deal. Even if they couldn’t risk rebooting his own body again, they could switch memory cores. No big deal. No problem. It could be fixed.

 

“I can’t lose you again,” Hank groaned, knuckles going white from the desperate grip he had on Connor’s hand. “I can’t lose you, not again, not now, I-I…”

 

Then, like they say, the penny dropped. That’s why Hank’s heart was hammering in his chest, that’s why he was edging closer and closer to panicking. “Hank, you’re not going to lose me.”

 

“You’re worth a small fortune,” Hank whispered, calm enough on the outside, but his vitals positively screaming on the inside. “I don’t have a small fortune. I’ve never had a small fortune. I had a fraction of a small fortune, but we spent most of that, already.” He sighed, and sighed again. “I don’t know what to  _ do _ …”

 

“Hey…” Connor kissed the back of his hand, cupped the side of his face and kissed his cheek. Payment plans or no, he understood why Hank wouldn’t want to be indebted to them or their insurance department. Not with their track record. “I’m still here. I’ll think of something, okay? I’ll think of something.”

 

“I’m so tired… I’m just so  _ tired _ … I don’t know what to do...”

 

“I know, honey. It’s okay. Maybe it’s a bit early to get back to work so soon. You’re still healing. I can call you a cab, talk to Captain Fowler?”

 

Hank nodded. Connor called Detroit Taxi, and gave Hank back his phone. It was time to get to work.

 

***

 

As far as Mondays went, this was one of the shittier ones in Fowler’s recollection. Just last week one of his detectives had gone off the deep end, and now the entire station was feeling the aftershocks. No one could believe it had happened in the first place, and Fowler’s bosses (not to mention Fowler himself) wanted to know just how he could have missed the signs. Looking back, it seemed obvious Reed had more than a few screws loose, but he’d been very adept at hiding his hatred. Fowler had, mistakenly, interpreted his jackassery as bad chemistry between him and Anderson. It wasn’t the first time Hank rubbed someone the wrong way, and both of them were like a pair of bulldogs. Both of them were opinionated and loud about it, Hell, Reed reminded him of Hank, when he was young. He should’ve seen it coming, but he hadn’t. He never would’ve believed Gavin would pull his gun on  _ anyone _ like that. He’d expected them to blow up at each other, sure, and he’d had words with both of them about setting their differences aside in the workplace, but he had expected them to trade blows at one point or another.

 

He had  _ thought _ they would throw fists at each other, beat the crap out of each other, and that’d be the end of it, caveman style, but not…

 

He never thought he’d have to pull Hank off the guy before he completely crushed his head against the floor.

 

Jeffrey took a deep breath, and sipped his cold coffee, one eye on the security footage of the evidence locker. He hadn’t been able to stomach much in the way of food since Thursday, but the caffeine would tide him over until he had to steal one of Collins’ donuts. It was a cliché, but sometimes you have to thank God for clichés. It was all either one of them had the stomach for, since Thursday.

 

Monday, now. It was turning into a craptastic first Monday of the year. Hank-friggin’-Anderson, one of his oldest friends, insisted on coming back to work not three days after being shot and beat up like a punching bag. Thank god for Connor, who’d put him in a cab and sent him home. Neither one of them should be back so soon, but Hank had been a workaholic since the day he was born (or so Jeffrey guesstimated), and Connor was only marginally better. He was glad Connor had made that call, as Hank hardly ever listened to him when it came to his own good.

 

He sipped his coffee again, turning both eyes on the monitor. Funny how the access log said Hank was down in the evidence server, despite the fact he’d gone  _ home _ . Funny how the guy down there didn’t look like Hank  _ at all _ .

 

One brief detour to Collins’ desk for a donut, Jeffrey went downstairs with a fresh cup of coffee in the other hand. And there he was. Connor. Brand new from the factory, not a single scratch on him. The evidence wall was down, displaying the rather more scratched Connor that had through some miracle endeared himself to most of the station. Even Collins liked the guy, and he could be a cranky old curmudgeon if he put his mind to it.

 

Connor stood by the terminal, his hand whited out over the touch screen. He only looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door. Damn hinges needed oiling. They’d been creaking like a ghost house since last November, at the least.

 

“Captain.”

 

“Connor. Tell me you’re not using Hank’s key card and password to get into files you shouldn’t have access to.”

 

He looked on as Connor’s LED ring went from yellow to red and back to yellow. He shrugged, and stepped away from the console, rubbing the palms of his hands against each other. “I would be lying, if I did. I just… I need to figure something out, and I didn’t know where to start.”

 

Jeffrey nodded, took a bite of donut, knuckling some errant sugar from the side of his mouth, and took a few steps further into the room. He chewed through, swallowed down the buttery, sweet treat with some coffee, and then used the mug to gesture at the terminal. “You’ve only accessed the files.”

 

“Yes. Of course. I understand I can’t be involved in the investigation as such, but I can still...review my...findings.”

 

“You read his report?”

 

Connor nodded. There was something about his posture that set Jeffrey’s alarm bells ringing, but he couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly. Kid was professional to a fault, but the past few days would set anyone on edge. Emotions were tricky enough for humans to work around; he could imagine it wasn’t any easier for Connor.

 

“You watched Hank’s statement?”

 

Once again, Connor nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s still upset about what happened. He says he’s still grieving.”

 

Jeffrey arched his eyebrows, looking from the new Connor to the old one: harrowing sight though he was. Barely anything left of his face, bullet holes everywhere, skin whited out from all the damage done. “I don’t blame him,” he said, deciding then and there to voice his concerns. “Can’t be easy on you, either. You sure you’re ready to be back to work? I’m not saying you’re not indispensable to the team, but if you need another day or two, I’m sure I can swing it with the admin office.”

 

And Connor turned to look at him then, a strange look in his eye. Jeffrey guessed, and guessed correctly, that he was about to find out what was bothering his newest intern.

 

“Have you heard back from Accounting yet? About...my potentially being paid for my work?”

 

It was a point of pride to Jeffrey, to take care of his team as best he could. As far as he was concerned, Connor was one of them, one of the DPD family, and he deserved no less than anyone else. However, the US government was of a different opinion regarding androids, and Fowler wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the state of things in the DPD.

 

“They’ve been very...bureaucratic about it. What with androids not being allowed to earn a living.”

 

Connor stood there, almost hovering in the air with nervous tension. “They turned down your request.”

 

“No, but they didn’t exactly bend over backwards to come up with a solution. And…” Jeffrey sighed. The donut seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. “I’m ashamed to say it’s not a pretty sum, and it’s coming out of our contingency fund. I was gonna give you your first check last Friday, but...shit happened, and...here we are.”

 

Connor’s mouth opened, then closed. “I don’t expect much,” he said. “Anything is better than nothing, and I’ll work just as hard as I have in the past.”

 

It was officially the worst Monday ever. He’d felt bad enough last week, knowing he’d have to hand over a check that said nothing of how many arguments he’d had with Accounting. Or the calls he’d made to his superiors, and what did it get him? “One hundred dollars per week.”

 

It was a long while until Connor found his voice again. “I worked an average of 450 hours in December. That’s 88 cents per hour.”

 

Jeffrey nodded, and tossed what was left of his donut in the trash. “I said it wasn’t pretty. I did my best, but they wouldn’t budge.” One of his superiors, who’ll remain anonymous, had even suggested Connor should be grateful they let him work for them. He should see it as a privilege and an honor, to work with Detroit’s Finest, as one of their own. He didn’t tell Connor as much, of course. Demeaning, ignorant load of crap that it was.

 

They shared looks then, of mutual understanding. Fowler’s bosses weren’t the enemy, Accounting wasn’t the enemy: it was the system itself, and the Android Act defining the android’s lack of rights down to the smallest detail.

 

“It’s better than nothing,” said Connor, with a wry lilt to his voice that tugged at Jeffrey’s funny bone despite everything.

 

“By a hair’s breadth,” he shot back. Connor flashed a grin at him. Everything about this Monday sucked, but at least no one was pretending that wasn’t the case.

 

“CyberLife called. They insist I’m not myself, and that I will have to have repairs done before I can  _ become a real boy _ . Oh, and I really shouldn’t be in possession of my predecessor’s collected RAM data, that’s just not the done thing. Oops.”

 

“Well, shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jeffrey sipped his coffee, and in a bout of sheer mischief, said, “No, I mean, that’s sarcasm! Coming from you!”

 

It paid off, judging by the mirthful glint in Connor’s eyes. “I have my moments.” It was one of those things, though. It burned out quickly. Connor turned to give his ‘predecessor’ a critical once-over. From Jeffrey’s standpoint, he looked almost melancholy about it.

 

“I was hoping they could fix you,” Jeffrey said, as they both started moving forward one step at a time, until they stood at a closer but still safe distance from the mechanical carnage. “I tried suggesting it to Hank, getting in contact with them, look at your options, but I guess he had another one of his gut instincts.”

 

“He knows how they work. He knew enough to expect the worst, and it still hit him hard. He’s convinced it’s just a matter of time before they start making demands to have their property returned to them, and I can’t be a hundred percent sure they won’t.”

 

Jeffrey smirked around another mouthful of coffee. “You’re never one hundred percent sure about anything, are you?”

 

“No,” Connor admitted, with something like a toothache smile. “I like to leave a bit of room for the statistically improbable…”

  
  


***

 

They talked for a while. Neither one of them felt comfortable with the massacred body of the first RK800 literally hanging over them, so they relocated to Fowler’s office. Connor thanked him for being there for Hank the other day, but didn’t tell him Mark II had uploaded his entire memory bank to the evidence server, nor that he had accessed it simultaneously with the rest of the findings. He had the cctv, the reports filed, statements taken, evidence logs, photographs of the crime scene, but he also had Mark II’s briefing with Amanda, his journey to the station, every little experience he’d had in the three hours and nineteen minutes he’d been activated. He’d seen every stricken face through Connor’s eyes, heard every curse, every gasp, everything. Hank’s breakdown in the interrogation room, through Connor’s eyes and the cctv: he’d played them side by side, feeling himself respond in phantom pangs of excruciating pain, and Mark II’s more collected assessments, his concern for his friend.

 

_ His only friend _ .

 

Connor thanked him, and Fowler admitted he was glad he was there, him  _ and _ his successor, predecessor, whatever he was supposed to be, because Hank hardly ever listened to Fowler. It was Connor who’d helped avert certain disaster, it was he who’d known how to help Hank. What’s more, he said, he hadn’t gotten around to letting him know how pleased he was to see Hank happy again. That’s all that mattered, in his book, and if anyone gave them trouble, he wanted to be the first to know so he could do something about it.

 

Neither one of them said it out loud: they didn’t want to have another case of the likes of Gavin Reed.

 

They talked about the Christmas party, and Hank’s gesture, with Fowler admitting that he’d given the guy a friendly, firm nudge into Doing Something, because “You’ve been good for each other, end of story,” and “Sometimes he needs a kick in the butt or he’ll talk himself out of good ideas.”

 

Connor got his first paycheck, digitally transferred to his DPD server, until such time he had a bank account of his own - but he got an actual envelope, with an actual slip of printed paper, wrapped up in a bow. Fowler said to frame it, put it on Hank’s mantelpiece, for everyone to see. It was a bad, horrible, brutal joke, but Connor knew exactly what he meant by it. Show it to the world, show anyone with a pair of functioning eyes: I’m the richest android alive.

 

400 dollars, and he was worth every penny of it.

 

On a brighter note, Fowler gave him another gift, calling it a belated Christmas present from his family, for him and Hank to watch together in awkward harmony. A memory stick, filled to the brim with footage from the party. Including, Fowler said with a grin that made him look like the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carrol’s books about Alice in Wonderland, the grand finale. Connor had an idea what he meant by it, but rather than react the way he suspected Fowler thought he would - awkward, shyly embarrassed - he felt absolutely, 99.999% certain there was nowhere else he should be right this minute, than curled up with Hank, kissing his sad face until he was happy again.

 

Lucky for him, Fowler was onto him, and concurred with his conclusions. “Go on, get out of my office. Tell Hank if he needs anything, just call. And that goes for you, too. Alright?”

 

“Alright. Thank you, sir.”

 

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, get out before I change my mind!”

 

And that, like they say, was that. End of discussion. Connor flitted around the office to shake everyone’s hand again, give hugs where they were welcome, and tell everyone it was good to be back, but bye for now. He hopped on the first bus heading for Sterling Heights, and this time it didn’t break down due to the cold, he made it there in just under 1 hour, 30 minutes. He hopped Hank’s tall, white wooden fence, neatly missing the dog house, and rather than give him another shock, he went around to the front of the house. He figured he’d brave the reporters, whatever they might want to ask him, and sure enough - the moment they caught sight of him, they descended on him like a wilderness of, well, reporters, wanting to know every detail of Thursday’s remarkable events. He respectfully declined making comment, saying he didn’t want to speculate about or damage an ongoing investigation.

 

He thanked them for their time, and seeing that they weren’t going to get anything worthwhile, most of them left in pursuit of more lucrative opportunities. Connor knew they’d be back soon, those who didn’t simply camp out in their car or their van down the street. They always came back, sooner or later.

 

More importantly, he was here now, and not one minute too soon: he rang the doorbell, telling himself to be patient, let Hank get up, let him shuffle at his own pace, no need to push the button as hard as he could, for way, way too long. No matter how much his fingers itched to do just that, he told himself to be nice, be patient. He had a new chance at  _ life _ , he didn’t need to worry about things like why Hank was  _ taking so long _ \--

 

And then the door opened, by someone Connor hadn’t even begun to enter into things, didn’t know to expect: a woman, with a head full of gray and blonde curls that seemed to live a life of their own, and a pair of dark blue eyes he’d seen before, in a picture. She had a button nose, a narrowed chin. Just like Cole. Just like her son.


End file.
